Battlefields and Bloodlines: Fight for the Future
by RivalsAreAllies
Summary: Our greatest heroes are lost. Some remain, but to stand against this new threat they'll need help. Can the next generation achieve the impossible? They will learn what it means to be a hero. But this world doesn't need a hero. It needs a CURE.
1. Soldiers, Speedsters, Shooters, & Slaves

**_Disclaimer:_**** I do NOT own DC Comics, or anything affiliated with said franchise, merchandise, literature, film, or other media. But, if I did, I would sell a SH*T-TON of comics (I hope)!**

**_Before-You-Read Background:_**** This BOLD, "_Pre-Story Pretext_," is my important, intrinsic, "_Before-You-Read Background,_" and these "_Before-Chapter-Author-Notes_," will almost ALWAYS contain UPPER-CASE Letters, of SOME sort. Proper grammar, and other things are used CORRECTLY in these "Pretext Prologues," though. …And while you should know that, you should also know that the ACTUAL STORY WILL contain GREAT spelling, grammar, punctuation, usage-and-mechanics, syntax, and semantics. Reading/RETAINING the NEXT portion of BOLDED text of IMPORTANT INFORMATION is HIGHLY RECOMMENDED! By stating the important information below, it will make this FanFic immensely more entertaining/enjoyable. Also, I am NOT insulting ANY reader's intelligence/intellect, OR, any reader's knowledge, or know-how of "_The DC-MultiVerse_," by explaining/elaborating on the following facts. I am simply giving the reader necessary information that he/she NEEDS in-order to properly understand my FanFic. I have read almost ANY/ALL of any-such-mentioned Marvel, AND/OR, DC Comics, and I LOVE superheroes (AND supervillains)! I mean, who doesn't? We love them, because we live though them. We live vicariously through them. They do things that we WISH we could do! It's the truth. The best part about comics, movies, films, books, media, and FANTASY, in-general, is that we can live-out our greatest fantasies, hopes, and dreams, WITHOUT EVER getting hurt or wounded! My FAVORITE superhero of ALL-TIME is a toss-up, between the following (Secret Identity Is In Parenthesis, Beside Name—If There Are Multiple Names In Parenthesis, Then It Means That ALL Of Those Characters Took-Up That Superhero-Name/Alias At One Point): BatMan (Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis—Batman Is Just SOOO Great! …I Mean, He Has NO Superpowers, Yet Can Go Toe-To-Toe With Superman—Thus Awesome!); Green Lantern (Alan Scott, Hal Jordan, Guy Gardener, John Stewart, Kyle Rayner); Flash (Jay Garrick, Barry Allen, Wally West, Bart Allen, Iris West); SuperGirl (Kara Zor-El); Green-Arrow/Red-Arrow/Speedy (Oliver Queen, Roy Harper, Connor Hawke, Mia Dearden); Black Lightning (Jefferson Pierce); Lightning (Jennifer Pierce); Spider-Man (Peter Parker); The Human Torch (Johnny Storm); Wolverine (James "Logan" Howlett); DareDevil (Matthew "Matt" Murdock); and IronMan (Tony Stark). Supervillains are important as well, though! They give us an interesting, and very relatable foil, both to ourselves, and to our heroes. The Joker is DEFINITELY my MOST-FAVORITE Super villain (His Mind Is Just SOOO Great To Look At! Once Again, He Has NO Superpowers, Yet He Can Bring The Country To Its Knees!—Thus Awesome!). Other memorable supervillains include (for me): DeathStroke (Slade Wilson—A.K.A. JUST "Slade," In The Show, "_Teen Titans_"); Vandal Savage (Vandar Adg); Darkseid (Prince Uxas of "Planet _Apokolips_"); Venom (Eddie Brock); Carnage (Cletus Cassidy); and Dr. Doom (Victor Von Doom). One of my MOST-FAVORITE comic book characters of ALL-TIME, though, would HAVE to be Dick Grayson; he is just a legend. Also, don't be surprised of you see some other OCs, as well as some old faces (*Hint-Hint, Nudge-Nudge*) in this FanFic. Also, please note that this Fic takes-place in a new "dark," "days-of-destruction," kind of future world, which takes place, in the FUTURE of the "_DC Comics-MAIN-Universe_."**

**_Author Announcement(s):_**** Okay. Listen, I KNOW that I have A LOT of OTHER FanFics STILL UN-Finished, BUT I just HAD to start THIS one! …Besides, I HAVE BEEN, and WILL CONTINUE to be updating my OTHER FanFics quite regularly! Speaking of which, I would LOVE some of your (whomever may be reading this HOPEFULLY enjoyable work of FanFiction) ratings, reviews, and thoughts on my other FanFics as well, as I use ANY/ALL comments that I get, in-order to make my Fics better for ALL who are and/or WILL be reading them.**

**_ABOUT AGES: _****Most people haven't read nearly as many comics, as I have. That is why ANY AND ALL of ANY of my comic-based FanFics are made VERY EASY to understand, so that even a "NON-Comics-Reader," can pick-it-up fairly easily. The ages of ANY/ALL characters described in this story and/or work of FanFiction is, COMPLETELY IN-LINE and/or IN-ACCORDANCE with DC Comics' MAINSTREAM CONTINUITY/UNIVERSE (This "Continuity/Universe" Is The Timeline, That Encompasses Most, And/or ANY/ALL, Of The Events, That Occur, In The DC-Comics'-MAIN-Universe, Which Is ONLY ONE Of MANY, Universes, In The Multi-World "_DC-MultiVerse_," And The "_MultiVerse_," Is The Term Which Is Used To Describe The COLLECTIVE COMBINATION Of DC Comics' MANY DIFFERENT, PARALLEL Worlds/Universes). This FanFiction, is-based-on/takes-place-in, the FUTURE, of The "MAIN-DC-Universe," (ONE, Of MANY Universes, In "The DC-MultiVerse"). ALL of the "_Cannon Characters_" (Characters, Villains, Heroes, Or Other Supporting Characters That DC Comics Has Created, And Own The Rights To) are JUST as DC Comics' depicted them, and I have done my very best to keep them VERY IN-CHARACTER in this story! Those characters that are NOT in Dc Comics' MAIN-STREAM CONTINUITY, BUT who ARE in DC Comics' MultiVerse, HAVE BEEN ADDED INTO THIS STORY, AND I HAVE USED THEIR BACK-STORY FROM the world that THEY ORIGINATED FROM in THIS STORY! I have simplified this story as much as I could, so as to NOT CONFUSE ANYBODY (Even People Who Have NEVER READ A SINGLE COMIC Should Be Able To Understand, Comprehend, And Follow This Story VERY EASILY). For future reference (For Those Who HAVE READ The Comics' ARC, In-Question), MOST of the "_Cannon Characters_," Who Are NOT In DC Comics' MAINSTREAM Continuity, but who ARE in the DC Comics' MultiVerse, and also in this story, I have taken from the DC Comics' "_Kingdom Come_" Comics' Arc. There will NOT be many characters that are not well-known here, and those are not well-known will be PROPERLY, and/or adequately described, introduced, and characterized. I have also CREATED, and introduced, MY OWN PERSONAL characters, that I have created myself (Called OCs, Or "_Original Characters_") into this story. As for the ages (This Is MOSTLY Geared Towards Those Pairings That People May Find UN-Believable), the ages are done, presented, and/or, calculated with a SIGNIFICANT AMOUNT OF RESEARCH, WORK, AND CALCULATIONS! They are all (For The Most-Part), COMPLETELY and UTTERLY CORRECT! In regards to the POSSIBLE Rose-Wilson/Damian-Wayne pairing in this story, I say this:**

**"_I LOVE that paring! They CONSTANTLY try to KILL each other, AND, win the other's heart! It's SOOO CUTE! I HATE when others say that she is way older than him! She is NOT! When she was on the Titans, and she... ...um... ...Tried to... Um... ...'Seduce' Tim Drake (Who Was Damian Wayne's Adoptive OLDER BROTHER), she was waaay younger than Tim! She tried to seduce Tim to attain the role of LEADER/SECOND-IN-COMMAND, and to ENSURE her spot on the Teen Titans Team. Her sensuality is one of her DEADLIEST weapons! Haha, Damian was kind-of getting 'distracted.' LOL. I mean, she was, like, what, SIX-SEVEN YEARS younger than Tim, but that was probably why he 'turned her down.' DAMIAN, however, and, her had a CONSTANT rivalry/relationship. I'm pretty sure that she was, like, two-four years older than Damian—CLOSER to Damian, in age, than ANY other character, who assumed the role of Robin."_**

**_AUTHOR'S AMENDMENT: _****This story will have a lot of action, adventure, comedy, romance, and a very deep-and-intertwined plot-and-premise. This first chapter alone is filled with descriptions, fight scenes, and explanations galore. However, although this is true, for the next five chapters of this story (EXCLUDING This One), this story's writing style will be more of a "_Telling_," and not a "_Showing_," kind-of style. It will be that way, in order to explain everything and anything that NEEDS to be explained for the story to progress BEYOND the first seven chapters. THIS chapter, however (Chapter One) will be much more if a "_Showing_," rather than a "_Telling_," kind-of style. Chapters two, through chapter six will have the more of a "_Telling_" kind-of writing style, and then after chapter six, it shall switch COMPLETELY to active voice (Active Voice Is "_Showing_," Rather Than "_Telling_"). So please bear that in mind as well, and bear with me, as I update this story as quickly as I can. Also, please note that the last character, who is described in the last section of this chapter is one of my OCs, and he is not a cannon character. …And, also, you should all note that ANY AND ALL of the "separate-stories," in this FanFic will eventually TIE-IN TOGETHER, and they will ALL flow chronologically, and in TIME-ORDER, and thus these "events," or "separate-stories," are actually ALL LINKED-TOGETHER, and they ALL happen, IN THE ORDER that they are written/read. …ANYWAYS, I hope that you all read, review, and enjoy!**

**_ENJOY!_**

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><p><strong>Battlefields and Bloodlines: Fight for the Future<strong>

**A FanFic By: D. Raj David**

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><p><strong>I. Soldiers, Speedsters, Shooters, and Slaves<strong>

The blonde brutally blazed through the arid atmosphere, and she hit the ground with incredible force, as the ground cleaved and split apart beneath her. She quickly rose from her resting place to look her enemy defiantly in the eye. Her bright blonde hair was now slightly stained with some of her blood. She licked her lips, taking all of the excess red fluid on her face into her mouth, and she spit the pooled fluid at the feet of her attacker. Darkseid looked in disgust at the fluid at his feet. It was blood. It was Kryptonian blood. He looked, first at the fluid, and then up at his opponent, his look of disgust deepening. He scanned her in her entirety.

Her metallic body armor was adorned with a blood-red "_K_" on its silver-black chest plate which contrasted slightly with her bright blonde hair that was currently tied up in a ponytail and falling over the back of her armor. She wore a confidant and defiant expression—which was odd, because Darkseid thought that he was surely winning the fight. She was wearing battle armor—Kryptonian battle armor, the armor of the long-since destroyed Planet Krypton's soldiers.

The planet Krypton had been destroyed long before the blonde-haired woman stood there, but she remained standing before her opponent, as if to somehow prove that the Kryptonian Army still existed—still fought. As long she stood there with her defiant expression, however, that army _did _still exist, and although it had only one soldier remaining in its ranks, it had enough manpower to ensure victory, and she knew it.

Kara peeked over to her left, and she caught sight of a piece of fabric that was caught on an aged rock formation and wafting in the hot heat of the solar wind that was bathing the city landmass she was standing on in radiation. It was a piece of fabric that was adorned with a large "_S_" symbol, and it was ripped, burned, and badly damaged. It was the remnants of her cousin's costume—his _uniform_. It was the remnants of her _dead _cousin's costume.

She caught sight of the once-mighty "_S_," and she almost cringed—and Kara Zor-El did _not _cringe, at least not any more. She suddenly wondered why she had even come back here—back to the floating remains of one of Krypton's foremost cities—to "_The Lost City of Argo_," a city that was shielded, preserved, and detached from Krypton before its untimely, unfortunate, and violent end. Its detachment from Krypton did not save its inhabitants however, as the ground beneath their very feet soon became Kryptonite itself—the very poison and greatest vulnerability to her people.

She quickly pushed these troubling thoughts out of her head, as she turned her head back to her opponent. Her deep blue eyes stared with a ferocious fatalness not seen since Parallax himself plagued the universe. Her bright blue eyes were flecked with specks of green—a tell-tale sign of Kryptonite poisoning—and Darkseid quickly noticed this. He smirked and chuckled slightly.

"You look sick, little girl. You should really take a rest." he teased, and Kara's fatal stare turned into a smirk of her own.

"I'll rest, when I _kill _you." she retorted, and Darkseid's smile immediately faltered, albeit he did not look afraid—rather, he looked annoyed.

"…Or when you _die_." Darkseid responded, his famous arrogant smirk returning.

"If I die, I'm taking you with me. It's a pretty long journey anyways—I figured we could finish this little fight of ours on our way to—" she started, but he interrupted her.

"…To _hell_?" he stated, somehow making his statement seem like a question.

"After what I'm about to do you, hell would be too nice a place for me." she replied, and Darkseid's smile faltered again. She really intended to kill him.

"Green is not your color, Supergirl. You should really take a breather. You wouldn't want to get winded like your dear old cousin, now would you? What would he say—that is, _if _he could actually say anything? You remember what happened to him, right? You don't have him to protect you anymore. You are _not _him, Kara. You will fail—as you always have—and he will not be here to save you." the rock-like creature known as Darkseid stated with an air of finality perfectly mixed into his menacing tone.

"It's not me that is going to need saving. And, you are right. I'm _not _him. He would _never _kill an opponent, and that's just what I'm going to do to you. Also, I believe green works perfectly on me, although you're right, it's not _Supergirl_'s color. But then again, I'm _not _Supergirl—not anymore. I am the '_Kryptonian Killer_' that will _end _you." she replied, and Darkseid's smile faltered for the final time. He was done talking. She would not seek reason, so he would reason with her _physically_. He would kill her.

He smirked, and he rocketed off towards her, as the "_Kryptonian Killer"_ did the same, leaving the ground and charging towards her opponent with speed too quick for the average human eye to perceive. The two met in the middle of their warpaths, and the resulting shockwave obliterated almost every aged rock formation around them, as they retracted from the epicenter of the impact and charged at each other once again, both intending to kill the other.

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><p>For a super-fast superhuman, Bart was processing things very slowly. His golden eyes scanned over the costume again—his uncle's costume, his <em>dead <em>uncle's costume. The holes, burn marks, rips, and tears in the "_Flash_" costume's durable fabric was a great testament to its traumatic and turbulent past. He sighed.

He was a reason that this costume had such a terrible and traumatic past. He was supposed to be a hero. That was what his uncle had trained him to be. That was what his cousins were. That was the reason his mother had sent him back in time to meet and be mentored by Wally West—by his uncle. He had failed though. He wasn't a hero. He was a liability—or at least he thought he was.

He always claimed that he had earned any and all "_rights_" that his uncle had bestowed upon him, but in all actuality, they were not "_rights_." They were "_privileges_," and Wally had bestowed them upon an unready and arrogant Bart Allen. Bart had always accepted the challenge, though, feeling he would easily accomplish the immensely difficult and daunting task that his uncle had left for him. Wally loved his nephew, but he didn't particularly like him—for good reasons. Bart was always trying to best his uncle, to claim some unforeseeable title, some unforeseeable and intangible rank in the superhero community, and in his "_family_"—in the "_Flash Family_." Wally taught and trained Bart as best he could though.

Wally pushed him to and beyond his limits, and Bart always excelled, but he also always lacked. He lacked because he felt that he did not need to push himself, because he felt that he was great, that he was perfect. In the end though, Bart had lacked, and his lacking had cost him dearly. He had failed. In his final moments with his uncle and two metahuman cousins, he had failed, and his failure had been the central cause of Bart's absence during the past few years.

However, while Bart was away, attempting to improve himself, he was not with his family, and his absence from his family—especially during their final fight—caused them to do the unthinkable: to lose. Iris escaped, only to die at a later date. Wally died. And Jai had sacrificed his connection to the "_Speed-Force_," to ensure that Iris had been able to escape the battle—although Iris had been killed some years later, after being tracked by the enemy she had tried to avoid. Wally was dead, and he died a hero, sacrificing himself for everything and anything that he loved and cared for. His daughter had done the same, and in that battle, Bart lost his cousin—his best friend—and his uncle, his mentor and the only father that he had ever known.

Bart was left to fill the empty and vast void in the Flash Family's ranks, but he was not enough to do it, and after that final battle, he finally saw just how unfit he was to wear that sacred scarlet Flash costume. Bart sighed again, and he turned his head to his left, now looking on at his uncle's other costume—Wally's old "_Burnout_" costume.

Burnout was another alias that Wally had used—although not often. It was the costume and alias that he had assumed when he began to hunt down and destroy those responsible for trying to destroy the world he loved and the people he cherished. He loved that world so much so that Wally was willing to sacrifice his own morals to protect and preserve it, and that is exactly what he did. When Wally was acting as "_Burnout_," he was _not _a hero. He was not an agent of justice. He was an agent of _retribution_. The only way to stop those who wanted to stop him—and all he stood for—was to _end _them, and he did just that, tracking them all over the world to do so.

Bart stared at the dark black-grey costume, and finally his eyes rested on its central emblem plastered on its chest. The symbol of a flame enclosed in a red "_prohibited_ _sign_" was the symbol that the secret government agency "_Cadmus_" had come to fear after their attempts to destroy the Flash Family.

Cadmus always claimed to be trying to "_better_" the world through its many exploits and efforts, but they always managed to do more harm than good, as they were always targeting the Earth's heroes as the source of most of Earth's wars and conflicts. Wally put an end to them though. Amanda Waller was done cloning Supermen, done cloning Batmen, done creating super-enhanced "_Speed Stealers_," and it was done sending said clones and creations after the Earth's heroes or trying to replace them.

Bart then noticed something odd—or rather, _miraculous_—about the Burnout costume in question. The costume had absolutely no tears, rips, burn marks, or other signs of trauma or injury. It was whole. It was complete. It was ready to be worn.

Bart's view shifted back to the Flash costume on its hanger, and then back to the Burnout costume. Barry Allen had trained Wally West. Barry had guided Wally, and Wally had tried to best him, but in the end he had failed to best Barry—to best his _uncle_—and as such, Wally thought of himself as a failure. Barry saw this, and the moment he saw that his nephew had acquired the _one _quality that he saw he lacked for becoming a true hero, the quintessential quality of humility, Barry had passed the Flash costume on to Wally. Thus, for the second time, The Flash had a new secret identity and Kid Flash was no more—that is until Iris West, and later Bart himself, donned that Identity and costume.

Bart smiled somewhat. He had almost the same relationship to Wally as Wally had to Barry. Actually he had the _exact _same relationship to Wally that Wally had held with Barry, but even so Bart did not feel that he deserved the Flash costume. He had to _earn _it first, and he couldn't earn it as a hero. He needed something else to earn that costume. He needed retribution. Bart turned his head towards the Burnout costume for the last time, and he made up his mind. Burnout was the embodiment of retribution, and he intended to do that name proud. He hadn't yet earned the right to be The Flash—or so he thought—but he most certainly had earned the rights to become Burnout.

Bart quickly donned the Burnout costume, and the speedster left his uncle's empty and vacated apartment in Keystone City, speeding away from the city at mind-shattering speeds, as a reddish-black trail was left in his wake.

* * *

><p>Mia sprinted past the arrows that almost grazed her. She slid on her lower left leg as she found some well-needed cover behind a tree. Just as she concealed her slender body behind the tree, five well-sharpened and well-aimed arrows flew into and impaled the opposite side of the tree—the location that she had been at moments before.<p>

Mia's blonde hair was currently up in a ponytail, although behind her dark golden-black hood no one could see her hair, as her dark eyes quickly shifted from side to side, scanning for enemies that might try to run around the tree and flank her from the rear. None did. They weren't that stupid—or so Mia thought. Five men with fatally sharpened arrows strung across their bows ran into view directly in front of Mia's vantage point.

They had run around the tree to try to attack her from the rear. However, they did not expect their enemy to be staring directly at them as they approached her. Mia's deathly fatal glare penetrated the five approaching men long enough to slightly stun them. Soon though, they snapped out of their stupors as they all raised their bows instinctively to fire at her. She was far quicker however.

Mia raised the bow that she had been concealing in left hand, behind her left leg, and she quickly and efficiently pulled the five arrows that she had been holding in her right hand across the bow. She took a quick and sharp look at her opponents and then she took off.

Her enemies released their arrows, but none of them ever hit Mia. She sidestepped at full speed, directly adjacent to the tree that she was just leaning against, and her agility was amazing as she narrowly—but efficiently and seemingly effortlessly—avoided the incoming arrows as they flew towards her at great speeds.

The arrows hit the ground to the left of her and they landed a few feet behind Mia's constantly changing position, as she continued to sidestep to her right, until one by one, all of the arrows hit the ground. She didn't stop moving after this though. She then rolled forward and to her immediate left, and out of the way of the group of throwing knives that one of the men had been so bold to throw at her.

She quickly used her legs to balance herself, as she stopped her roll, and expertly got to her feet, her five arrows now strung on her bow and ready to fire at her opponents. She swiftly and silently leveled her already armed bow at her enemies. Her eyes narrowed, and she did not hesitate.

She released all five arrows, and in a split second, one by one, all of her projectiles connected with their intended targets, and they all promptly fell to the ground, dead.

She then heard a sound that she knew all too well, and she narrowly avoided another barrage of incoming arrows, as over seven new arrows hit the ground where she had just been located as she sprinted—with expert speed—to the next nearest tree.

She reached this new tree just in the nick of time.

The arrows hit the front of the tree on the direct opposite side of the tree that Mia was currently leaning against, and she heard sounds of the arrows connecting with the tree as she listened intently to the cracks of the wood, and the resounding sting of the metal. She heard these sounds, and she used them to do her math.

There were nine arrows. But there were seven shooters. She knew this because she _knew _that two sets of two of the arrows had hit the tree at the same exact time—thus they had to have been fired from the same bow.

She now knew how many opponents she had to deal with. Mia quickly reached into her quiver on her back, and she pulled out seven arrows. She strung them all across her bow in an expansive triangle formation. She looked down at her bow with seriousness. Seven arrows. Seven enemies. Seven shots. She couldn't miss, or she would be dead. Then again, Mia Dearden never missed. She quickly cleared her head, and she silently nodded to herself.

She spun around the trunk of the tree, and she quickly maneuvered her way to the front of the tree's trunk. Once at the tree's front, she was greeted by the shadowy views of seven shaded figures, far off in the distance, in the clouded foggy green forest in front of her. She heard the arrows coming at her before she saw them, and she began to sprint—to her left and forwards—as she approached her seven enemies at speeds approaching the maximum limit of a very capable human.

She saw twelve arrows coming at her this time, and she slid under them—using her right leg as her guide and buffer—as she neared the twelve arrows. Just as her body ducked under the twelve incoming bringers of death, she redirected her already armed and loaded bow up and directly at her seven attackers, releasing her seven arrows at the foggy figures in a precise order and with great timing as she slid along the cold damp forest floor.

She stopped herself in her slide, as she heard the distinct sounds of seven large men dropping to the forest floor in an ordered and efficient manner.

Mia raised herself up, and she removed her hood as she went to inspect her fallen enemies. As she approached the seven foggy figures, they came into view, and she could see that not one of them moved or even breathed. They were all deceased. She had not missed—not a single shot. She smirked, but her smirk was quickly wiped off her face, as she bent down to pick up the object that she had been chasing after all this time. On the back of one of her dead enemies was the bow of her former mentor—of the man she considered her older brother—the bow of Connor Hawke, the second man to assume the identity of "_Green Arrow_." The first man, to assume the identity of "_Green Arrow_," was the man that had adopted Mia—the same man that was also the biological father of Connor. That man was Oliver Queen.

Oliver was a troubled young man. But he had fixed himself—by breaking himself. When Oliver returned from his hellish exile on an unforgiving island, he had returned with new, nearly-superhuman, skills. He had died on that island, but _Green Arrow _had been born in his place. _Green Arrow _was an instrument, a _tool_. Oliver had become a shell, and the _instrument _that he had become was an instrument that was used to keep the memory of his parents alive—parents that he had _failed _to save, because he could not take a life.

He kept their memory alive, by keeping their morals—their ideals—alive. When Oliver returned from that island, he was able to take a life; he was able to _kill_. He was able to do so, because he had promised to keep his parents alive, because they were the only people that had _believed _in him—and he _needed _that confidence in him to be present.

Oliver kept his parents alive, by keeping their ideals alive. He instilled strength in the weak, and he exposed the weakness in those that pretended to have strength; he acted on his parents' beliefs. He fought crime—and he did not hesitate to take a life; he would never hesitate again, but killing was _always _his _last resort_. He feared the act of killing, because he knew that anyone that he killed would not leave him. Anyone that Oliver killed would _stay _with him, weighing on his soul—whatever was left of his soul. And that weight would slow him down, and while he could afford to take that weight, he didn't always want to.

Soon, though, he found others to help him carry that weight. Oliver was a billionaire, and he used his wealth to help his city prosper, as best as he could. That prosperity included giving a home to those that needed one. Soon, Oliver had adopted Roy Harper, a lost soul that _needed _Oliver, just as much as Oliver needed him. And soon, Roy found Oliver's "_Arrow-Lair_." Roy was dead inside; he didn't like acting human, because he didn't feel human. So, Roy stared acting like an _instrument_, instead, just like his father—like Oliver. Soon thereafter, Oliver also discovered his biological son, Connor, and adopted his youngest child, Mia Dearden. All three of Oliver's children were lost, inhuman, broken children. And these broken children helped fix each other; these broken children helped fix their broken father, by becoming an _instrument _and doing the things that they _needed _to do—just as Oliver did.

Mia was Oliver's youngest child, and Connor and Roy—her older brothers—had been the ones that had taught, trained, and tempered her the most, but she had still inherited a lot from her father, from Oliver, from "_Ollie_."

Mia swiftly snapped back into the present. She carefully inspected the bow, and she blew any excess dust off of it as she carefully placed the bow on her back. She then looked down and eyed her freshly killed enemies with a new disdain and hatred. If they weren't already dead, she would have killed them again. They all wore the mark and symbol of Connor's new yet formidable foe, "_Gisborne_."

Mia sighed at the thought of her former mentor's bow being in the hands of these men. She had once assumed the hero alias "_Speedy_," Green Arrow's noble and quick-shooting sidekick. She soon ventured out on her own, but yet still she kept her alias all the same. As she looked down at her dead enemies, she sighed and discovered something very saddening. She was Speedy, yet was not fast enough to save Connor—her mentor, her _brother_—from these men, from their leader, from death. She did not deserve the name of Speedy. She was fast, but she needed a name that better suited her more dominant skills. She was quick, but she better at being _accurate _than she was at being fast. She was a sure-shot.

At that very moment, she assumed her new alias, and Mia Dearden became "_Sure-Shot_."

Sureshot looked down at her deceased opponents once more, and she decided one very crucial thing: she did not want to look at these men any more. She pulled her hood back over her head, and she walked away from the site of her latest conquest, away from the forest, away from Sarajevo, Bosnia.

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><p>The man awoke, and his eyes screamed in agony as he surveyed the dark, dank, damp room around him. His dark red-orange eyes were tired, exhausted, and drained. His sleep had done nothing to lessen his torment or his fatigue. He sighed, and the action hurt him deeply. He cringed slightly at the intense pain, but it was only a slight cringe. He was far too used to pain to be affected too much by it. He had spent his childhood—or, rather, lack thereof—experiencing and dealing with pain. It was forced upon him—constantly forced upon him.<p>

The man was on his knees—as he had often been over the past thirty years—and he struggled to move somewhat, as the cold concrete floor made his very durable knees ache somewhat. He tried to move his hands to assist him in the task of relocating his legs, when he remembered something: his hands were bound.

Unfortunately, he remembered this fact slightly too late, as he tried to move his hands, and the cuffs that restrained his durable and super strong wrists generated a very large amount of electricity that flowed through the cuffs, which were made entirely of Nth metal, and the jolt of the shock flowed through the man's beaten, bashed, and bruised body.

He wanted to scream at the sheer and unexplainable pain that he felt, but he did not. He could not. He just opened his mouth slightly, and he waited for the immense pain to stop. It took some time, but soon, the shock receded, and he the man resumed his normal position of kneeling quietly on the ground.

The shock had hurt, but it had also reminded him of just how powerful and resilient he was. He had been pushed—practically since birth—and he had been breed, born, brutally beaten, taught, and trained—against his own will, which he was not entirely sure he had much left of—to be the perfect soldier, the perfect weapon, and for the most part, his brutal and hellish days had proven to make him into just that.

He was deprived of anything and everything that he could have been deprived of at any chance his captors—who doubled as his "_trainers_," "_teachers_," and "_disciplinarians_"—saw fit to take something away from him. He was deprived of these things, so that he could learn to live without them, and as a result he would learn to survive and thrive on the smallest amounts of fuel and nourishments. He was quite strong-minded and determined, and his constant lack of food and water made him only that much stronger. He wasn't always without food though, and when he was given food, he was given the _best_, most healthy pieces of food available.

His captors were cruel and uncaring, but they were not stupid. They wanted to turn this man into their greatest soldier, their greatest weapon, and as such, they needed to put good things into him to get good things out. In fact, upon his first week in captivity, although he could not remember that far back, he was given a steady stream of laxatives and harsh digestive scrapers and cleaners, as he was forced to slowly and painfully remove any and all toxins and harmful substances from his body. Ironically though, the food and water were the _only _good things that they had put into him.

Since the smallest age he could have remembered, he was put in the arena, forced to fight, forced to survive, forced to get better. He was trained each and every day.

He had been pushed to—and beyond—his limits of willpower, his limits of strength, his limits of speed, his limits of durability, his limits of intelligence and battle smarts, and most importantly, his limits of morality.

The man sighed once again. Today was a fighting day. Today was another day to test his mettle in the arena. He would win. He was sure of it. He always won. It used to be difficult to win against his opponents, but as time passed, and as he got stronger, swifter, smarter, and surer of himself, he became more and more deadly—just the way his captors wanted him to be. That was all he was to them though: a _weapon_. He wasn't even acknowledged as a living being anymore, let alone as a member of his race. They had shunned him.

They had _all _shunned him, even the ones who were fighting against his captors and their armies. They had all shunned him so much so, that they had even removed the trademark and iconic appendage of his species—his wings. They had removed his wings. His brother was a member of a crime fighting organization, one called the "_Justice League_," of Planet Earth, and his wings were his symbols—his icons, his trademarks—of justice and peace. Removing his wings not only made him less of a living being, less of a member of the race he belonged to, but it also made him the antithesis of his brother's symbol—the antithesis of justice.

Although they had removed his wings, he was still able to fly. His captors would not have a weapon—a soldier—that could not fly in battle, so they injected his cells and bonded his skeleton with his peoples' famous Nth metal—the densest and strongest known alloy in the universe, which also had a peculiar ability to defy gravity itself. Thus he was not only able to fly and defy gravity upon learning to control his abilities, but he was far more durable and strengthened than anyone else of his race—which was a very strong race of people to begin with. Nth metal was not the only thing that he was injected or bonded with, however.

He was injected with large amounts of solar energy and radiation, and thus, he could power and sustain himself—or sustain his stamina at least—using only solar radiation—energy from the sun, _any _sun. This enhanced solar power also gave him increased power, and that power surged throughout his cells, and throughout his entire body whenever he was exposed to any kind of solar energy. He had been tested in this regard many times in the past, and his solar absorption and power increases rivaled that of a one-fourth-Tamaranian being, but it was still small compared to a Kryptonian. Of course, his sun's energies were far weaker and more aged than most stars' energies and rays.

He didn't ask for any of this, though. He didn't want any of it. This war had caused all of this. He sighed. '_This war_,' he thought silently. This war that was now not only engulfing the city around him—the city he was sure he would never see, at least not any time soon—but the war that was also engulfing the entire planet that he was on, was a war caused by a single ring.

It was an orange ring, a ring that was said to have great power, and a ring that was said to be the "_power ring of greed and avarice_"—one of the many power rings that controlled and influenced an individual's emotions, each ring affecting a different emotion depending upon its color and origin. Ever since that ring had landed on his planet, the people of Planet Thanagar had been engulfed in a war to find and control the small but powerful object.

Both of the factions fought for control over this ring, and he knew that soon he would be ready, as deemed so by his captors, and he would be released upon their enemies. He wondered if they stood a chance, and then he pushed the thought from his mind. They did not stand a chance, and he was not happy about that.

He sighed once again, and just as he sighed, a large metal door on the far side of the room opened, and with it came a large gust of breeze. The breeze shuffled the man's dark jet-black hair as it drifted throughout the room.

Through the door, stepped a large, burly man with traditional Thanagarian battle armor consisting entirely of Nth metal. The man had a hawk-like metal face mask on and his jet-black wings that were so obviously and graciously attached to his back were folded down at his side.

"Nytar Hol, it is time." the man said in tone that rang with finality.

The man known as Nytar Hol looked up at the man before him, and he nodded grimly, but yet not obediently. He would fight. But he would not like it.

"You know, one day, they're going to get tired of you. They're going to have to dispose of you. …And when that day comes, there will be no escaping your fate. What they say is final, and you know that. You have kept in here for many years. You have watched me grow, watched me become stronger, watch me become swifter, watch me become smarter, watch me become your ultimate downfall. In time, I will be free of these chains, and when I am, I will _kill_ you, just as I have done to so many others." Nytar spoke, and it was many more words than he had _ever _said to the man before him in his entire time in captivity.

The man smirked and chuckled slightly. "But you are _not _yet free of those chains, and as such, I still have command and control over you. If I wish, I can kill you. Never forget that. I am the master here, _not _you." the man in armor responded to Nytar.

Nytar now smirked. "Then you better kill me now, because if I get out of these chains, I will do the worst thing that you all could imagine. I will do _exactly _what I was _designed _to do. I will kill you all. …And I'll start with _you_." Nytar replied, and the man's smirk faltered. He knew Nytar was not joking, but still the man shrugged off the chained super-soldier's comments.

The man in armor walked over to Nytar, and he picked him up off the floor, escorting him out of the large, cold, dark room as he walked with the chained Nytar at his side. The two exited the room, the man's wings brushing against Nytar's face as he did so, reminding the damaged and demented slave what he was not, and what he would never be: living.

**A/N: PLEASE Rate And Review! I would GREATLY appreciate it! Stay tuned for the next update!**


	2. Return

_**Disclaimer:**_** I do NOT own DC Comics, or anything affiliated with said franchise, merchandise, literature, film, or other media. But, if I did, I would sell a SH*T-TON of comics (I hope)!**

_**Author Announcement(s):**_** Okay. Listen, I KNOW that I have A LOT of OTHER FanFics STILL UN-Finished, BUT I just HAD to start THIS one! …Besides, I HAVE BEEN, and WILL CONTINUE to be updating my OTHER FanFics quite regularly! Speaking of which, I would LOVE some of your (whomever may be reading this HOPEFULLY enjoyable work of FanFiction) ratings, reviews, and thoughts on my other FanFics as well, as I use ANY/ALL comments that I get, in-order to make my Fics better for ALL who are, and/or, WILL be reading them!**

_**New Notice:**_** I have started a new FanFic, that is a "**_**Cross-Over**_**" FanFic, between the two television shows, "**_**Teen Titans**_**," and "**_**Young Justice**_**." I would GREATLY appreciate any and all feedback that I could get on that, OR, on ANY other of my FanFics, as I use every and any comment and piece of feedback given on a story, to make it a better reading experience for all those currently reading it. Those two shows are based on DC Comics' DCU though, so I simply supposed that you all would enjoy that.**

**II. Return**

A girl walked warily throughout the hallways of her high school. The institution of higher learning had its usual hustle and bustle, but there was also the usual aura of fear, fretfulness, and fatal stares that filled the toxic atmosphere. This school taught its students a great deal, but one thing that it did not teach them was how to survive, and that was information that one greatly needed to be able to live in Gotham City.

Her ponytail suggested, however, that even though she was a female, she did _not_ particularly want to _look_ like a female, and thus attention from the opposite sex was not only unwanted, but mostly unwelcome was well. The girl had her book bag slung over her shoulder, like so many of the other students, as she walked down the hall.

She approached her locker, and she opened it in an expertly quick manner. She unzipped her book bag, and emptied what little contents that she needed for her day. They rest of the material, along with the bag itself, was violently crammed into her locker. She proceed to shut her locker, although she was dreading the action for some time—because shutting her locker meant that she was about to start her day, and she wanted to do anything but start her day. In all actuality, she just wanted to end it.

Although this was the case, she was happy when she saw what lay beyond her locker door. It was the friendly face of Matthew Maxim.

Matt did not treat like the general male populace did. He treated her as an individual, as a person—not as a prize. The truth was that he saw her as being _better_ than himself. She saw him as being her equal. It was a constant topic of dissonance and disagreement between the two.

His neatly chaotic blonde hair rested on top of a peaceful, yet stern face, whose eyes were currently scanning and scrutinizing the girl in front of him. He scanned over her, but not so as to demean her, or focus on her figure, but rather, her details. He looked over her muscular form, and he once again, silently marveled at it—as he often did. Of course, he _did _notice that she was attractive. He _was _Hal Jordan's son after all, although her attractiveness was _not _what he focused on.

He wasn't the only one examining the physical physique of his friend, though. Laura swiftly scanned Matt, in his entirety, and she had gained every piece of intrinsic information about her friend that she had needed from that one simple scan. Her father had taught her how to do that—among _many _other things. Matt was fit—_very fit_. Laura constantly wondered what drove the boy. It wasn't simply his need to keep up with her. She knew that.

Matt would claim that was the only reason that he had to be so strong, so swift, so mart, and so sensible, but Laura knew that he was lying. He was an excellent liar—a trait he had learned from his father, no doubt—but Laura was the daughter of the second greatest detective to ever roam the Earth. She was no fool. Matt had a deep drive to do…_better_. And his drive was paying off.

He _needed _to keep up with Laura, to be her equally even counterpart, at all times. If he wasn't equal to her, then he wasn't able to compete with her, and if he didn't compete with her, then he would never reach his potential—his powerful potential. His father made sure that he _would _reach his potential. Hal Jordan made sure that his son would use his failures to drive his successes. It was the only logical thing that Hal could do for his son.

Laura's gaze lingered for a second on the abdomen of her friend. Matt was no fool either, but he didn't notice the girl appraising his assets, because he was currently appraising her own. He had woken up late this morning, and as such, he had quickly thrown on whatever was lying around his room. Apparently, the only option that he had was a tight white t-shirt—a _very tight _shirt. Laura wished for a second that his abs weren't so defined. Her father had already reached his quota of annoying sexual jokes regarding Laura's drool, and the boy's abs. There were just as many jokes, regarding the boy's drool, and his daughter's body.

Dick Grayson was not the traditional father. Then again, he had learned everything that he knew about fatherhood, from watching his own father—Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne was the legal father of Richard "Dick" Grayson, but the only blood that Dick and Bruce shared was the blood that they had both spilt—in their crusade for justice, their crusade into _darkness_. Bruce Wayne had adopted four sons—Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Terry McGinnis. Bruce had been biologically related to only one of those adopted sons—to Terry. Bruce also had a fifth son, Damian Wayne, that was also his biological son. 

Bruce Wayne shared the same bond with all of sons, although he shared no blood with them—except for two—he shared something that ran deeper than bloodlines ever could. He shared battle with his sons; he shared his teachings, training, tempering—and his love—with his sons. These boys had lost _everything_ on the streets of Gotham, but they had gained something far more valuable, when Bruce had adopted them. They had found _themselves_. They had joined their father in his crusade against crime. The criminals of Gotham City were weaklings, and they fed on weakness. Bruce's sons were weak, and those criminals had preyed in them; those criminals had _broken _those four boys.

But, when Bruce adopted them, he rebuilt them; Bruce made them _stronger_. As they became stronger, they learned to protect those that put their faith in heroes, because it took immense strength to have faith—especially in _this _city—and those with strength _lived_. Batman made sure of that—as did Batman's partners. Batman's partners were the four boys that had helped him make sure that the strong lived, the four boys that had helped him protect Gotham—the four boys that had donned masked costumes with him. And Dick Grayson had inherited more than he had ever realized from his father.

Dick Grayson was an excellent father, just as Bruce Wayne was. He was simply unorthodox. He could joke with unusual things with his daughter. He was not the best. But he did beat every other father that thought they were better. Dick knew his daughter, inside and out, and he would do anything for her, give anything for her—even his life. Laura would never let another one of her parents make that sacrifice, though. Not in this lifetime. Laura was the world to her father.

Laura's gaze finally raised to Matt's head, and she caught his eyes, just as he was looking up at her face, as well. They both resisted the urge to blush—_deeply_. They knew what the other was doing, and they weren't even trying to hide it. Matt then turned his attention to the kids around him, listening, observing, deducing. He was good at that. He was good at deducing things. One thing he could not deduce, though, was how Laura had managed to progress so far, and so fast, in all of the areas that she had excelled in.

She was far stronger, swifter, and smarter than any girl—or, for that matter, any _boy_—her age. She had pushed herself _far _beyond any limits she might have had long ago, and it showed. She had quite a bit of obvious and well-defined muscles on her physique. But unlike so many girls who would have built their muscle on their arms and upper chest, the dark-haired girl had put her extra muscle on her abdomen and lower-back, and thus, she did not resemble some of the "she-hulks" that walked around this city pretending to look like a threat.

Her physically fit and attractive form was a product, mostly, of her intense determination to improve herself—_constantly_. She had an _insatiable need _to prove herself—to prove the _world wrong_, to _defeat _anyone of the opposite opinion that she was weak. She was slightly insane in that regard, but Matt didn't mind that fact; in fact he found it somehow endearing. Watching her brutally beat another boy whose mouth seemed to have no regulator, or some girl who was simply asking for it made Matt's day. Besides that, she had a legitimate excuse for being slightly short of sane. It ran in her family. If only she knew of the accursed "_Bat Bloodline_."

Regardless though, she always had _something _to prove, just as her father did, and just as her mother did. She saw the world as her enemy, one that she could not defeat, and one that was constantly beating her—and for the most part, she wasn't wrong. Her father was a hero, but she did not know that. Her mother was hero, but she refused to be accepting of the heroic decision that her mother had made long ago. She had chosen her daughter over herself. She knew her father as Dick Grayson, and nothing more, but she would always know her mother as a hero, one that did not have to die.

She wanted nothing more than to make her father proud, and as such, she was _always _pushing herself to do better, to excel wherever she could, to be the daughter that he wanted—the daughter that he _deserved_, the daughter that her _mother _deserved. Her father was _always _proud of her though, and even though he constantly told her this, she wanted nothing more than to do _better_. She felt that she owed him something _more_, because he had given her a family, a mother, and a father who loved and respected her, and also because he had to live with the girl who had been the reason for his wife's demise.

Richard _never _blamed Laura for what had transpired, but she _always _did. She hated when he defended her, or her mother's decision. The world had given Laura so much. Then, it had taken it all away. No. The Joker had taken it all away. Laura still remembered that fateful day—that _nightmare—_very vividly. It was a nightmare—_memory_—that crept into her unstable mind night after night.

When Laura was five, she witnessed her mother being brutally murdered at the hands of a deranged clown. She was a detective working his case, and she was _relentless_. She was _fearless. _Even in her last moments, her only worry was for her daughter. She would not stop, until she had found and dealt with "_The Joker._" She was _too relentless_, though, and it caused her to enter into a game that Lana Storm, Laura's mother, knew she couldn't win. The Joker was just as relentless as she was, perhaps even more so, and he played the game out to its conclusion.

The clown had stood there, over the injured woman's body as she slowly made her way to her feet. Her legs were broken, and she was using the wall to assist her in raising herself off the blood-stained floor. She was wincing and whining ever-so-slightly, and—even though she tried to mask her pain—her daughter was in more pain than Lana was at every sound she made. She would stand, or her daughter would die. That was the choice she had. That was the choice that The Joker had given her. She chose her daughter's life over her own. Her daughter, although only five-year-old, would _never _be able to agree with her decision. Her mother put bad people away. She made the world better. She was _worth _saving. Laura wasn't. But, apparently, the world did not want to be a better place. Because the world had killed her mother. No. The Joker had killed her.

The moment that her mother rose from the pool of fluid—mostly her own—on the floor of their apartment, The Joker slayed her—ruthlessly. He had become increasingly better at hand-to-hand combat—a consequence of so many run-ins with Gotham's resident "_Bat-Family_"—and as such, he was easily able to overpower the well-trained Lana Grayson.

The Joker had been waiting for her. He knew _everything _about her. Unfortunately, Lana knew _everything _about The Joker as well, and thus, she knew what was coming. The girl watched in horror, as her mother fell to the floor, lifeless. At that very moment, the clown had laughed, as though he had just told an amusing joke. He spoke to the little girl before him, and as he addressed her, he continued to cackle. His cackle would haunt her deepest nightmares, her deepest fears, her deepest rages. She would never forget it, and she would never want to.

_"Remember, little girl, when you play games with The Joker, you __lose__."_ the clown had informed the girl, gesturing to her dead mother as he said the words.

The girl sat there, crying and not knowing what to do. Her father would come home hours later, and his world would be shattered. Later that night, Batman would break his one rule, and The Joker would die. Richard Grayson had killed The Joker, and he had enjoyed it, but he could not stand to wear the symbol of Gotham's protector after he had just become one of its criminals, and as such, after that night Batman was no more. The Joker had died, but he had taken Batman with him.

And, without Batman, Gotham City had become _hell_. It was _already _a hellhole, but now, there was no comparison. The _real hell_ looked much more appealing that this godforsaken city that Richard now lived in with his daughter. He refused to fix it though. Batman was dead. He was sure of that.

Laura was _constantly _trying to prove herself, to _earn _the worth that her mother saw in her. She owed the world _everything_; the world had given her everything, and she owed it _everything_. But, The Joker had taken her world away, and she owed him _something_ as well. She had an _obligation_ to make the world a better place like her mother had done. The Joker was an obstacle, a disease, a _virus_, that prevented the world from being a good place. Her mother knew that, and she had tried to correct it. She had failed, but Batman had not. But still, this world, this place that _ate _its heroes, needed to be better, and Laura _needed _to make it better. She owed it to the world, to her mother, to herself, and even—or rather _especially—_to people like The Joker, to make this world..._better. _There were few left to help world be better, as it was.

Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, The Green Lantern, the "_Bat-Family_," the "_Flash Family,"_ the "_Kryptonians_," the "_Amazons_," the vast majority of the land-dwelling "_Atlanteans_," and so many others had been eliminated. Yet still, her father remained. But Batman was dead. If she only knew what her father could accomplish—what he _had _accomplished—then she would have _forced _him into that "_Bat-Suit_."

She was always trying to better herself, trying to earn what her mother had given her, trying to gain some _worth_, some _value_, so she could at least, _begin _to _fix _this world, this broken thing. But she had no idea where to begin, and absolutely no idea where to stop if she ever did begin. She was _never _satisfied with the outcome of her perseverance, though. Her training, her studies, her exercises—she excelled at them all—but it was never enough. She saw nothing in herself, and her father was constantly angry at her for this. He saw an infinite amount of value in his daughter, but she did not reciprocate this. She _wanted_ to feel this way. This was the only way she knew to honor her mother, whose decision she still could not comprehend. She hid it well though—_very well_.

What made her even angrier was the fact that Matt seemed to think that _she_ was _better _than him. That fact annoyed her to no end. He was _constantly _trying to push himself to be her equal. Physically, they were equal. Mentally, they were different—_very _different. But that didn't mean that they weren't equal; it just meant that they were different.

Her intense determination and drive to better herself came primarily from her father, who constantly pushed her to be better—not because he wasn't proud of her—which, for the most part, he always was—but because he knew she could do better. She was all that he had left, and after her mother had been taken from them—in the violent and gruesome way that she was—he couldn't help but worry about his daughter. He _always _worried about her. He had devoted his life to her, and thus, she owed it to her father to make sure that she was okay, that she was safe. And being okay in this city meant pushing yourself to your limits—pushing one's self so far _beyond_ their limits, that is, until they no longer had any limits. She had done just that. The seventeen-year-old had become far smarter, stronger, and faster than most her age, but, by all means she was, in no way, any safer—especially in a place like this. This hellhole. The hell that they called Gotham City.

Besides her determined nature to constantly learn and break her boundaries, having her father teach her most of what he knew in hand-to-hand combat came in very handy in furthering her prowess. She had no idea how he was so well-versed in such areas as explosives, weaponry, disarming an opponent, and _many _martial-arts, combat, and strategy, but she was thankful—regardless of how he had come into the information—that he had chosen to share it with her, to train her in these areas.

Matt knew what she was capable of. He had seen her use her skills on more than one occasion. He respected her for it, but sometimes, he feared her for it as well. She wasn't the only one with family secrets, however. Matt knew nothing of his legendary father. He knew nothing of the "_Light That Shone Brighter Than Any Other_." He knew nothing of the hero, Hal Jordan, of the fact that his father was "_The Green Lantern_." Had he known, he would have, more likely than not, forced his father to don the ring once more. This city—this world—needed heroes. Matt and Laura were the children of two of the greatest heroes of their time, and they knew nothing about this fateful fact.

Laura's beautiful hazel eyes looked deeply into Matt's amber ones—deeper than any physician would see—and she scrutinized him as well. The silence lasted longer than should normally be acceptable, but neither felt any awkwardness. They were silent, but they were still communicating. He was the first to speak—as was often the case. She was not the talkative type.

"You should wear your hair down." he stated, almost abruptly.

She playfully scowled at him. "Yeah, that would be a terrific idea." she replied, rolling her eyes as she did so.

"You look prettier with it down." Matt responded.

She smirked at him. "That is exactly why I should _not_ wear it down." she replied.

"What do you mean by tha—" Matt started, but was cut off by another voice entirely.

Another boy approached Laura from behind, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. This second boy, with his mop of dark brown hair and green eyes, spoke to the girl, whose waist he had just taken control of.

"Hey baby. Guess what. Luck must be smiling on you, because my Saturday just opened up. That means I'm free, which means that your dreams are about to come true." the large muscular boy addressed the girl. He was doing this to _any _and _every _girl he could his hands around. Laura was attractive; he had noticed that accurately, but he had failed to notice that she was a slightly psychotic and viciously violent young teen. He was soon about to acquire this information in a very unsavory manner.

The girl responded, but before she responded verbally, she responded _physically_. She swiftly and silently spun out of the boy's hold, and as her entire body was spinning, she raised her left leg at an exact and precise angle, and it connected with the boy's head, sending him flying some feet backward, and crashing to the floor. Matt, who up until this point had been furious at this arrogant fool, now showed a small smirk, and he had to try very hard to suppress a laugh. The newly-stunned and dumbfounded, massively muscular, boy looked up, slowly but surely, to face his attacker standing several feet above him.

"If, when you said that my, and I quote, '_dreams would come true,_' and you were referring to the dream I have, where I cut you up into little pieces and feed you to my dogs, then _yes_, it is _very likely_ that it _will_ come true." she addressed the boy beneath her.

She took a step towards him, and the stunned boy backed-up feverishly, crawling backwards as fast as his limbs would allow him. She chuckled at his reaction, and Matt could no longer hold in his own laughter. The boy got up, and, although he was still dazed and shocked, he was rather quick in how he performed this action. The girl called out to him, as he slowly began to retreat.

"…Oh, and Chukie?" the girl addressed the boy that she had sent crashing to the floor moments before, and who was now steadily retreating.

"…Y-Yeah…?..." Chukie responded, unsure of himself, and not wanting to continue his conversation with his attacker.

"If you _ever_ touch me—or _any _girl—like that again, without my or her consent, that arm will be returned to you _in pieces_. Do you understand?" she asked. The boy nodded eagerly.

"Good. You are free to go now." she said, ending their "conversation."

The stunned boy turned on his heels and bolted in the opposite direction.

She turned her attention back to her friend, who was watching her with much amusement painted on his face.

"…_What_?" she asked him dryly.

"Nothing. I just enjoy watching you kick a dude in the face. Especially _that_ asshole. I mean, really Laura, I think it just made my day." he said to her, smiling sarcastically as he did so.

"Why? You could have easily done that." she questioned quizzically, already knowing the answer.

He shrugged. "You just looked better doing it." he replied readily.

"You were looking at my butt, weren't you?" she asked, teasingly, smiling slightly.

He nodded, shamelessly. "Your dad's is still better." he commented.

She went red in the face, as she scowled and narrowed her eyes at him. "Your mom still has better abs then you." she retorted. She lied.

"You and I both know that you're lying." he replied, smirking.

"Whatever. Come on. We'll be late to class." she said dryly. She did not enter into fights that she could not win. Bruce had passed that on to her, without the girl knowing it.

She turned and led them both to their first period class.

The two entered the room to find all of the students gathered around a single boy. Laura and Matt recognized the boy almost immediately as one of their classmates. Although people were gathered around him, they did not appear to be interested in _him_, per se. What he held in hands, however, seemed to be what everyone _was_ interested in. What he held in his hands was nothing out of the ordinary, but Laura immediately felt a sense of foreboding. She _hated_ feeling this way. Matt's own sense soon had an equally forewarning sense of approaching trouble.

The two approached the crowd and she brutishly pushed her way into the center. She heard all of the voices around her, but she ignored them. She reached the student with the paper, and she looked sternly at him. He returned her gaze, but he said nothing.

"What's wrong?" she asked the apparently stupefied boy in front of her.

He responded by simply handing her the newspaper. She took the object in her hand, and scanned the page, and almost immediately, her eyes fell on what, presumably, had already captured everyone else's attention.

The headline read: "_A Laughing Matter, or Life-Or-Death? The Joker Returns to Gotham_." Directly adjacent to the text was the picture of a man dressed in a purple and green suit, decorated in an insane variety of clown makeup. This makeup, however, did not make him look appealing or funny. It made him look menacing, insane, crazed, and—Laura couldn't figure why she would use this word—_viral_. He looked _viral_. This was The Joker that she was staring at, but it wasn't _The Joker_.

This was _not _the man who had killed her mother, but she couldn't help but remember the face, the makeup, and the smile—oh god, that smile—as one and the same. Her old feelings of fear, hate, anguish, torment, and rage—_pure_, uncontrollable rage—boiled to the surface.

This was a man that she had never met and that she had never thought about, but yet she knew _everything_ about him—or at least she felt she did. His face was the one that plagued all of her nightmares. He was the reason her father worried so very much. She knew none of these things for a fact, but she knew one thing for sure—although she had _absolutely no idea _how she knew this so-called fact—and that fact was a simple one: she was on a collision course with _that_ man—with The Joker.

Matt's own eyes narrowed at the female clown behind The Joker in the picture. Her left foot was pressed harshly on top of one of her many defeated foes—a well-trained "_Gotham Police Department S.W.A.T. Officer_"_—_and her facial expression and physical form stated, quite clearly, that she was a very skilled hand-to-hand combatant.

He scrutinized her further—not because she was attractive, although he would admit that she was—but because something odd stuck out to him. The Joker and his apparently crazy clown girlfriend had just robbed a store in the newspaper picture, but what caught Matt's eye was the object in the female clown's hand: a green ring.

**A/N: Please Rate And Review! I would GREATLY appreciate it! Stay tuned for the next update!**


	3. Remembrance

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own DC Comics, or, anything associated with said franchise.**

**Author Announcement(s): The names of ANY/ALL Tamaranians, in this chapter, will be referred to, in the TAMARANIAN language, and, NOT English, because they ARE on Planet Tamaran, after all! The names of the Tamaranians are as follows: Earth Name: StarFire, Tamaranian Name: Koriand'r; Earth Name: BlackFire (StarFire's Older Sister), Tamaranian Name: Komand'r; Earth Name: WildFire (StarFire's Younger Brother), Tamaranian Name: Ryand'r; Earth Name: NightStar (StarFire's Daughter), Tamaranian Name: Mar'i. You MAY want to (OBVIOUSLY OPTIONAL) read the stuff on this link (WEBSITE [REMOVE SPACES, COPY, AND, PASTE, INTO ADDRESS BAR]: www. titanstower source/ whoswho/ tamaran. html), to refresh your knowledge of Tamaran's history. ANYWAYS, this is NOT a filler chapter, and some SERIOUS stuff will be discussed here. If you don't like remembering the deaths of superheroes, then you may not like this chapter. I STILL ENCOURAGE you to read it. You'll like it! I PROMISE! Here's Chap. 3! Enjoy! **

**III. Remembrance**

The man stood, looking over the edge of the balcony, as he had often done many times over the past twelve years. It was snowing. It was _always_ snowing. It was cold—as it _always_ was, and it was _deathly_ cold. But he either did not notice, or he did not care. It was more likely than not the latter option. He could get acclimated, or adapt, to almost anything. He could _withstand_ almost anything. Just like _she _could.

'_Ughhh_,' he thought to himself. He was thinking of her again. He was always thinking of her. Usually people thought of someone who had tried kill them—and almost successfully on so on so many occasions before—in a hateful or vengeful way. That's not how he thought about _her_ though. Granted, he had tried to kill her almost as much, but then again, she had deserved it. Perhaps he did to—at the time. He chuckled at a joke that only he heard.

Damn, if he wasn't careful with the jokes that "_only he could hear_," he might end up in Arkham too. He chuckled to himself at the thought. He did it again. Maybe he was already insane. It was only a matter of time. It did run in the family, after all. They were _all_ crazy. Damn crazy Bats. He chuckled once again. Now he was sure of it. He had a spot in Arkham Asylum waiting for him when he got back to Gotham.

He looked out upon the vast snowy white wonder that was the terrain before him. It would have looked like a beautiful painting, had he not been able to visualize—and _clearly_ visualize at that—all the _massive_ amounts of blood and gore that had often _drenched_ the snowy fields before him. He continued to look on at the vast blankness before him, his deep blue eyes scanning the tundra that was far too large for him to take in all at once.

His view shifted from hill to hill, slope to slope, and it finally ended at the crest of the large mountains that were some distance off in the far forward direction, and whose sheer face looked like it was giving him a death glare—one that would have killed anyone else. It wouldn't kill him, though. He had been through _far_ too much, to be killed by a simple look—especially one from an inanimate object.

He scanned the top of the never-ending dark abyss separating the large mountain from the large snowy white field in front of the balcony he was on. He sighed. He knew _every _feature of that mountain by now. He had spent _far_ too long looking at it. He _should _have been training right at that very moment. His mind was elsewhere though. He was thinking about all that he had left behind—thinking about all the _people _he had left behind—about Terry, about Laura, about Dick, and about…_Rose_.

Why did he even bother with that last train-of-thought? He wasn't even sure if she was alive anymore. It was hard to tell who was left alive after the "_Hero Hunting_" "_Extermination_" had taken place. He cringed every time he thought about that—and Damian Wayne did _not _cringe. He didn't cringe this time, though. He was used to it—used to the thought.

He sighed again. It was such a simple plan—so simple, that it _had _to work, and unfortunately, for the most part, it _did_. Almost all those who put the planet before themselves had died trying to defend it. A few remained, but it was too few to make a valid threat to the deteriorating human condition or the villains that caused it to further deteriorate. This time, the villains had won. Damian sighed, and he remembered another time that villains had won. It was the event that had caused him to exile himself, and caused him to come here—here to train, to get better.

It was so simple, and Damian cursed himself every damned day for not seeing just how simple it was. His brother would have seen. Dick would have seen. '_Damn_,' he thought. He was doing it again—comparing himself to his brother. He had done that _a lot_, since Bruce had passed. He didn't aggravate and insult Dick—_constantly_—because he thought he could better than him, but because he was _jealous_ of him.

He had _never _admitted that to himself, until very recently—that is, if someone counted twelve years ago as recently. Dick was the son that his father always wanted, and he wasn't even _blood_! Bruce passed away, with all of his "sons," and any and all of "daughters," at his side, blood or not. The only one of his "_Bat Bloodline_," that was absent on this day, was Helena; had she been alive, she never would have missed it. Damian _erupted_ at Dick. How could his own father leave the Batsuit to Dick? Damian was _more _than ready for that responsibility. However, his father apparently did not see things the same way. This was a "business" that took _everything_ from someone. Bruce Wayne was hero. He had jailed, killed, or otherwise eliminated, _numerous_ threats to _both _the world, and its inhabitants in general.

Yet, at his funeral, there were a substantially _low_ number of people in attendance. The reason for that was simple. Bruce Wayne had died, but Batman had _not_. He could _never_ die. He was immortal. He was a symbol. He was a symbol that Damian was _ready _to take-on. His father, however, thought otherwise, and after the "_official_" will of Bruce Wayne had been read by his lawyer, Alfred read his "sons," and his "daughters," the will that he had drafted separately—his "_Will of Warriors_," as he called it. This will gave the task of continuing the role of Batman to Dick.

Damian couldn't handle that. He just let Dick have it. He let _everything_ out. He told him about his insecurities, about his need to win his father's approval, and about his _very recently_ developed heated hatred towards his brothers. Jason, Tim, Terry, Steph, Cass, Barbara, and Dick were shocked, stunned, and speechless; only Alfred could speak, and he took the opportunity to do so. At this moment, Alfred, as usual, had chosen an excellent time to share valuable information.

He handed Damian a letter that Bruce had written exclusively for him. He had written a goodbye note for each of his sons, but only Damian got a letter. The others were neither surprised, nor jealous. He opened and read the letter, and almost immediately, he regretted _everything _that he had just said. His father did _not _want his son to go into this "business." There was a simple reason for that: it would _kill _him, while Batman would live on. He would always live on. He had _trained _the others to _handle _that, and although Bruce _knew_ that Damian could handle it, he did _not _want him to.

Damian was raised to be in costume, constantly fighting, and always expecting danger, but that was _not _the way that Bruce wanted his son to be raised. The fact that he had spent so long with his mother and grandfather, before Bruce even knew he existed, however, prevented Bruce from raising Damian, like a "normal" child. In his last letter to his son, Bruce said how proud of him he was and how he was sorry for not being the father he deserved. Damian wished that he could have told him that he was sorry that he was never the son that Bruce deserved.

Bruce went on to explain that he only ever continued being Batman, to _save _Damian from the burden. Bruce reasoned, that because Damian was his own flesh and blood—and by an extension, _part of himself_—Bruce wanted nothing more than to see Damian pain-free, and being the Batman required experiencing pain—and _a lot _of it. If there was one thing that Damian could do, it was handle pain. His father knew this, but he reasoned that he had taken enough pain for the two of them. Bruce had tried his _best _to create a world that was _better _than the one he was raised in—one his son could have a _normal _life in.

He had failed, and once again, he apologized for it. Every apology that Damian read in that letter was like a stab through the heart for him. Damian could take pain—and _a lot _of pain, at that—but, _this…this _was like hell for him. He had never experienced this before, and, he wasn't sure how much more of it he could handle. Bruce had _trained_ four others to take-on his mantle, and he only wanted his son to be…well…his _son_. He didn't want his son to be the symbol. He wanted his son to be his son and nothing more.

Damian realized then that his constant attempts to better himself, and to earn Batman's suit was what had put a strain on their relationship. After this, he apologized to his brothers, and he left Wayne Manor in haste, seeming very distraught. Jason had tried to _kill_ almost all of his brothers in one way or another before, and even though he was a little psychotic, even he _knew _that he could _not _handle what Damian was now going through. Although Damian had left the Manor far too quickly to hear any of their responses to his apologies, he knew that all of his brothers had all accepted his sincere and sorry apology.

Two weeks later, when the "_Venom Virus_" had "_infected_" Gotham city, Batman returned and sprung into action. The five brothers decided that, if he had wanted to take the risk, Damian should return as Batman. Damian was happy for their symbolic acceptance of his apology, and he readily accepted the offer. He was aided, however, by seven other vigilantes—by seven other _heroes_.

Damian had donned the Batsuit, and Dick as "_Nightwing_," Jason as "_Red Hood_," Tim as "_Red Robin_," Stephanie as "_Batgirl_," Cassandra as "_Black Bat_," and Terry as "_Robin_" (he drew the short straw—no one wanted to be the _original_ Robin) had accompanied him into the depths of hell. It was no understatement. If anything, it was an overstatement. Gotham City had actually become hell—that is, if it wasn't already.

With Barbara, as the omniscient "_Oracle_," and supplying the heroes with a never-ending stream of important information, the "Bloodthirsty Bats," leapt into the decaying pit of damage, destruction, and devastation that was gruesome Gotham City. And Gotham's hell became hell for its enemies, as a swarm if bats descended on them. There had been a death in the family, but they seemed stronger, smarter, and swifter than the family had _ever _been.

The Virus had infested Gotham with ease and efficiency. It was a gaseous form of the "_Venom Drug_," and it made almost _everyone _in Gotham crazed with power, a thirsty for battle, and superhuman, with superhuman strength, speed, and limits—that is, if they had _any _limits.

The only way to cure them was to take the "_Antivenom Antidote_," mix it with blood of the original carriers, and then administer the gaseous form of this new solution back into the atmosphere of Gotham. Damian's insatiable _need _to _prove _himself, however, now not only to his father, but also to his brothers as well, was his greatest downfall in those two weeks that it took to restore Gotham to normal.

The "original carriers" of the Venom, were the henchmen of Gotham's old foe, Bane, and they were ruthless.

Bane had released the "_Venom Virus_," as a means for the city to destroy itself, and he had _very nearly _succeeded. It was _very _close to working. His henchmen were well-trained in combat and control—control over both their abilities, and over their _addictions_ to Venom. Taking their blood "samples," to create the curing solution proved to be a terrible task, and as such, Damian was the first to volunteer for the task.

His brothers often had to bail him out though, and had he not been so overconfident and eager to prove himself, he would have succeeded _without _their help, but he was far too overzealous. It took Damian almost getting his back broken by Bane, and Jason having to save him, for him to see that he was not ready to accept the mantle of Batman.

Although Damian saw it, he never admitted it, and all throughout the weeks of the "_Venom Virus_," incident he continued his tactics, as if nothing were wrong. In the end, Jason Todd had to sacrifice himself to save Damian, an act that Damian would _never_, in a million years, have predicated.

Jason died, all-the-while, taking most of Bane's mutant monsters—and the vast majority of the original carriers—with him.

Damian had caused Jason's death, and it continued to eat away at him. The death of one of his brothers would cause the death of another, though. Jason had drawn the blood of the "original carriers," but he didn't contain it or mix it with the "_Antivenom Antidote_." That task was left to Tim, and when he went to mix and administer the "_Antivenom Antidote_" to the pipelines of Gotham, Bane confronted him.

Having his back turned, and being completely vulnerable, Tim had Damian there to watch his back, but being distracted, distraught, and feeling immensely guilty over Jason's death, Damian failed to stop Bane from attacking and maiming Tim from the back.

Had Tim actually seen the attack coming, he would have _easily_ stopped it, but that night he depended on teamwork, on someone else—on his _brother_—and Damian had let him down, just as he had let Jason down. Jason was a psychotic psychopathic murder, and yet, even he still came to his Bruce's funeral—to his father's funeral—and assisted his brothers in this suicide mission.

Damian wasn't like that. He wasn't a team player. His years on the "_Teen Titans_" should have hinted at that.

With Tim lying helpless on the sewer floor, Damian proceeded to charge Bane, and he then defeated him. Damian then kneeled down and began to apologize profusely to Tim. Tim was bleeding, and he choked on his own blood, but even through this, he managed to see Bane rising from the spot where Damian formerly laid him to rest.

Unable to speak, and thus, unable to warn Damian of the threat behind him, Tim used his bladed scythe to pick himself up, and using the weapon, he catapulted himself up and over Damian. He landed right in front of the charging Bane, and he took the full force of the monster's blow, but, skillfully, Tim managed to not go flying in the opposite direction.

Tim had hooked his scythe into Bane's Venom mask, and thus, with the force of the blow, he swung himself up around Bane's head, and he pulled the mask off of him.

Bane—having already gone through withdrawal from Venom—felt almost no immediate effects. Tim landed on the ground—_hard_—and he was immediately pummeled by Bane, but just as Bane jumped back and attempted to leap on the broken and battered "_Red Robin_" once again, Tim's scythe found its way through Bane's back, and thus the hero would sacrifice himself, dying with his enemy on top of him.

Damian approached Tim, and his last words to his brother were simple ones, but they made Damian—the _Dark Demon_, the unbreakable child, "_The Dark Knight_," the man who did _not _show emotion—cry. Tim's last words made Damian cry.

"Don't apologize. There is only _one_ Batman. It's in _your _blood, kid. _Not _mine. 'Sides, Batman doesn't need a '_sidekick_'. You _always _had it in you. Don't let this stop you. _My _mistake—_not_ yours." Tim chocked up, having lost whatever blood was lodged in his throat, in his aerial confrontation with Bane. A single tear left the Bat's eyes, and they landed on his brother's lifeless body.

After that event, Damian couldn't afford to stay in Gotham. His father was right. He was _not _the next Batman. He wasn't Batman, _period_. He need his _own_ name, and needed to go someplace secluded to find it—some place where he wouldn't be risking anymore of the lives he cherished, even if he would never admit to cherishing those lives. He wanted to help make this world better—that was a given. Damian Wayne was messed-up—_really _messed-up—but, he still saw goodness and potential in this world.

His father had given _everything_ to ensure that he could live in a better world. Bruce thought that he owed the world something, because it had given him his son. Damian thought that he owed the world something, because it had given him a home, four brothers, and a father. Thus, the "_Demon Son_," being the determined person he was, set-out to find the secluded and desolate place that he so desperately sought.

Unfortunately, the only secluded place that Damian could think of to train, was with his mother. That thought made him sigh a little. He thanked, and apologized to, Terry and Dick, and he packed his bags and left. He was bound for Russia, and he would not return until he was capable of making this terrible world a better place—until he was the man his father knew he could be.

Damian now found himself thinking about all of the other events that had taken place _before _that "_Venom Virus_" had hit Gotham. They were all sad events, though. Well, all were sad—all _except _a few. Those events that weren't sad were the ones with _her_ in it. The "_Hero Hunting Extermination_," as the "_Fearsome Foursome_," called it, however, was another memory that was forever ingrained in his mind.

Brother Blood, Madame Rouge, Dr. Lethal, and Vandal Savage had gotten what they wanted, but they had gone _too _far. They called themselves "_The Fearsome Foursome_," or "_The Four_," for short. They had a terrible team name, but they had a good plan. Too good. Too good, because it worked. He regretted how well their plan had worked _every _day he was here—here training, training so that, _maybe_, he could _fix_ himself, and be the person not only his father wanted him to be, but that _he_ wanted be to as well.

All of the materials that "_The Four_" needed to make their plan work was what they already had—willing and loyal servants, trainees, _killers_. They pooled these trainees from the former students of the former "_H.I.V.E. Academy_," and they used them as their pawns.

They simply took those poor, demented, tortured youths, and turned them into mindless minions. They implanted the idea that, because the world "gave them life," that they had an "obligation," to give back to the world. And, these young ones then believed that there was no better way to give back to the world, than _eliminating_ the ones "_responsible_," for a the rifts in society, the ones who felt they had the "_right_" to judge others, and as such, take _away_ their rights—the ones who called themselves _heroes_.

It was simple. Through _years and years_ of intense fights, conflicts, and battles, with any and all of the remaining heroes, or hero-teams, "_The Four_" gathered the DNA and genotype information of any and all heroes that they had come in contact with. They then implanted that information, along with the DNA of several heroes, into their well-trained killers.

"_The Four_" then sent their young killers each after a specific hero in turn. Each "_Hero Hunter_," as "_The Four_" called them, had a specific target.

Every hero was chased, hunted, and otherwise tracked, by a "_Hero Hunter_," whose powers, and abilities perfectly matched that hero's abilities. Of course, the "_Hunters_" had one advantage: they had been observing and studying their prey for some time. Thus, they knew their enemies better than they knew themselves. Many heroes had been killed in the "_Hero Huntings_," such as Helena Wayne.

Helena Wayne, the blood-bonded sister of Damian, the woman that had used the alias of the deceased hero, Helena Bertinelli, had been killed in the "_Hero Huntings_." Helena Wayne was the child of Selina Kyle—better known as "_Cat-Woman_"—and Bruce Wayne, and she had been acting as "_Huntress_," after the old "_Huntress_," Helena Bertinelli, had been killed. Barbara Gordon had also been killed in these "_Hero Huntings_,"—albeit not until _after _the "_Venom Virus_" had affected Gotham.

Barbara had been killed, but she had survived the initial waves of the "_Hero Huntings_," and she had used her covert connections—all over the world—to track, trace, and terminate almost all of the organizations that had made deals with the "_Shadow Sectors_," of different governments all of over the world. These organizations had dealt with these "_Shadow Sectors_," of different corrupt countries, such as Bialya, in return for recognition, progress, prowess, and powerful partnerships. These organizations—as well as the "_Shadow Sectors_," that they financially funded—had been responsible for helping "_The Four_," by supplying their equipment, monetary funds, and young "_interns_"—the same young "_interns_" that would later be turned into "_Hero Hunters_."

Barbara Gordon and her team had discovered, disarmed, and destroyed many of these organizations, and in doing so, she attracted attention to herself, and to her effectively efficient team, the "_Birds of Prey_." Thus, in the later waves of the redesigned "_Hero Huntings_," she was targeted, and she was killed, but she did manage to take her enemies with her, and expose those governments that were supporting this "_Hero Hunting_." Thus, the "_Birds of Prey_" had effectively ended the "_Hero Huntings_," although they had sacrificed themselves so that they could accomplish that task.

The effect of her deathly demise was most visible in Dick's emotionless expression. They had always been there for each other, always aided and assisted the other. They _loved _each other. The only thing that Dick and Barbara couldn't help each other with, was their truly terrible tenacity. That stubbornness caused Barbara to reject Dick's proposal.

That stubbornness caused her to become cold to him, to think that he had better things lying in wait than a washed-up cripple. That stubbornness caused their son, Tristan, to become aggressively angry at both of his parents. That stubbornness caused Dick Grayson to leave Earth, and venture with the newly-created "_Intergalactic Investigation_," Division of "_The Justice League_,"—which was led by Dick at the time—to the planet of "_New Tamaran_," after the original planet Tamaran had been completely devastated, demolished, and destroyed.

There, he learned that the woman he thought was dead was still living. There he had encountered stubbornness that would have rivaled Barbara's steely stubbornness. There, Dick Grayson encountered the alien princess, whom he had fallen in love with as a teenager. There, he tried to tell her that his feelings had not changed. There, she would listen. Thus, there he was forced to speak with _actions_, instead of words. There though, he would eventually have to _leave_, without reconciling, repairing, or rekindling the relationship he had hoped he would. Dick Grayson had loved three women in his life. He had married one. He had lost all three. Even his own son seemed unreachable—if, he was even still somehow living. Now, he had only one girl that he loved. He had only Laura left. He had only his daughter.

Though, throughout the time that Dick had spent in space, the "_Hero Hunting_," was still being executed on Earth. Though this "_Hero Hunting_," was a great plan, and execution, for "_The Four_," there was still the problem of super-powered freaks running around, after the heroes had been "dealt with." "_The Four_" had easily solved this problem, though.

The genetic codes of "_The Hunters_" were designed to disintegrate after some time, thus killing them and eliminating any evidence or "hassle," for "_The Four_."

Many of the heroes who were hunted died. Some survived. Some simply kept running, until their Hunter's genetic code unraveled, and he or she died. Some actually managed to defeat or kill their Hunter—albeit _not _many.

Damian Wayne had survived, and his hunter had been killed, but he was not the one who had killed him. Rose Wilson had killed his Hunter, and he had killed hers. He had thought she was dead, and seeing her again was something that the tormented, tortured, and drained boy needed to see. He had to admit, it was a little weird having her try to _save _his life, rather than _end_ it—as she usually did—but it was a refreshing change.

Dr. Lethal—being of blood relation to Lex Luther, and as such inheriting his hatred of the Kryptonians—stole a great deal of the data, and retreated to his lab, most-likely to begin his own experiments and plans. Vandal Savage, however, had other plans, and with his own personal copies of his formulas and data, he began a plan to attack and destroy the Lantern Corps. As far as Damian knew, Savage had either not been successful in that plan to eliminate the Corps, or he had not attempted it—_yet_.

Damian sighed once again. He missed the old days, but he knew that they weren't coming back. They were gone—gone for good. But, now, as he stood here and looked out over the ice-cold fields below him, he thought—no, he _knew_—that he could make new days like that—a _new _era of peace—but, only if he truly pushed himself beyond his limits, if he truly wanted to make this world better. He had been training for the past twelve years, and he had experienced pain that was beyond his wildest imagination—pain that was too painful for even Damian Wayne to withstand. He had been pushed to his breaking point—to his limits—and _beyond _them.

He was surprised at this revelation, though, because he was sure that he broken any limits or boundaries he had _long_ ago—when he was just a child. _Both _his mother, and his father, had pushed him to, and beyond his limits, and, even as a child, his skills far exceeded the abilities of the average well-trained assassin. This training that he was experiencing now, though, was far more intense that _anything _he could have _ever _imagined. But, then again, it _had _to be that difficult. Damian was _already _great, but, he wanted to be better. Being better than he _already was_, though, was something that was truly a great goal—a goal that was damn-near impossible, unless he pushed himself as hard as he was currently doing.

His mother, to his surprise, had been reluctant to train him at first. After he explained his situation, and the experiences that had driven him to want the League's help, of all people, his grandfather and mother heard him out, and had agreed to train him. Since he was already in top form, though, the kind of training he was in for would be the kind that could kill him.

He relished the thought of it—the thought of a challenge. When he began to train with his mother, however, he realized that even though she was pushing him, she was holding back. He then requested that his grandfather take over his training, and Ra's agreed. Damian had never known such pain, until his training with Ra's Al Ghul had begun. He had survived it all, though, and he had become stronger—_much _stronger. In fact, in his attempt to try to become the man his father wanted him to be, Damian had rekindled his relationship with his mother and grandfather. They both respected him—_deeply _respected him—and they both saw how quickly he progressed.

The past twelve years had been filled with fairly few happy occasions. One of those occasions, though, was the time he had spent traveling the whole world—to further progress his technical training, so he could learn the entire Earth's geography, from every small pebble in every small state, to every large country that existed and thrived on Earth. During that time, he had found a friend—a friend he had been sure would hate him. She _did _hate him. But, hate wasn't the opposite to love. It was precursor to love. Damian learned that fact, and many other facts, in the time he had spent with Iris West. She could _always _teach him something. It was one of the reasons that Iris West was one of the _few _people that Damian had openly admitted that he loved.

Damian continued to scan the vast terrain around him. The killer chilly wind whipped around him, shuffling his jet-black hair as it did so. He sighed once again. He really should be training. Just as conjured this thought, Damian felt a hand on his shoulder. He smirked. He knew whose hand it was without even making a sound.

"You should be training." Ra's spoke to his grandson.

"You sure you want another ass-kicking, 'old man?'" Damian responded, jokingly.

"If you manage to 'kick my ass,' then you will do so, using a broken foot, 'young boy.'" he replied, a subtle smirk forming on his own lips. Ra's Al Ghul was making a joke, and Ra's Al Ghul did _not _make jokes. Damian had really done wonders for the old man's outlook and disposition. He hadn't changed him completely, though. In general, Ra's still detested humanity. Still, though, it was nice to know that he wasn't going to try to destroy Gotham or go on a "_slaying spree_" anytime soon. Perhaps Bruce's death had affected more people than he had imagined.

"I'll be in, in a second." Damian responded.

"Your mother wishes to see your new skill set demonstrated against me in person." he stated, addressing his grandson. "She is growing impatient." Ra's finished his plea.

Damian nodded and understood. People did _not_ keep Talia Al Ghul waiting. He followed his grandfather, as he led them both to the interior of the League's mountain hideaway. The gore stains that Damian had remembered from earlier would be clearly visible after their match. That was a good thing, though. "What you lose in body fluid, you gain in pride." Talia had said. Damian smirked. He was about to walk out of the ring, feeling very "proud," indeed. But then, so would his grandfather.

* * *

><p>The girl looked up at her attacker. Her face was muddied, and she was injured, but she refused to give-up, to quit. She was sprawled out on the cold, dusty floor—the floor of the training courtyard of the palace. The girl looked up at her mother, at her attacker. Koriand'r had a sad, sullen expression on her face.<p>

The girl with dirt on her face and her blood on the floor rose from her defeated position and assumed a fighting stance, her brunette hair slightly singed. She shook the fire out. She spit the blood that had pooled in her mouth onto the floor beneath her feet, and the liquid landed directly in front of her mother's feet. Upon seeing this, Kori's expression changed from a saddened one to a semi-smirk. She knew her how much her daughter could take, but she was more-and-more impressed at every peak she reached, and how she always managed to ascend higher than that peak. Mar'i looked at her mother, and she smirked to herself.

Koriand'r's hands lit up, and they began to glow with an emerald luminosity. Her daughter followed suit, and proceeded to perform a similar action. Mar'i's hands flared up with violent violet aura, and she charged at her mother, gaining speed, and leaving the ground as she did so.

Kori was prepared for the attack, though, and she put her hands up in a defensive blocking position, and the two women collided in a fury of heat, flames, and smoke.

The resulting explosion slowed neither of the women down though, and they both retracted from the epicenter of the bang, and both—now completely airborne—charged at the other, and the resulting battle took place at a pace that continued to increase, as the two fatal females grew in intensity, violence, viciousness, and speed. The explosions grew louder and louder.

The smoke became suffocating, but neither slowed down. They continued to go at the other, but it was clear that Mar'i was tiring before her mother. It was obvious to anyone watching the fight, that, had it continued to its entirety, Mar'i would tire _long_ before her mother. That is exactly what happened. Mar'i shot a starbolt, but her mother deflected it, and returned fire.

Mar'i had no energy left to doge the oncoming attack, and it hit her directly in the chest—a square shot. She toppled backwards, and, just before she hit the ground, she stopped herself, and the repulsive force of her aerial acrobatic maneuver caused the dirt and dust on the gritty floor below her to scatter. She stayed airborne for a minute longer, before she lost all of her will, and toppled to the ground, seemingly unconscious. Koriand'r descended to the ground, a few feet in front of her daughter. Her face returned to its former sad and sullen expression.

She saw her daughter's chest rise and fall, and then, just briefly, her eyes fluttered open and then quickly snapped shut again.

"That will do for today." Koriand'r addressed her daughter. She turned to leave, and, just as she began to walk away, she heard a sound that made her do a full turn-around. Her daughter grabbed a fistful of dust, and she slowly but surely, rose from the small impact crater that had been created by her "graceful landing." She stared her mother defiantly in the eye.

"No! We are finished when you knock me unconscious, or when I drop _dead_!" Mar'i challenged her mother's order, obviously trying to get into a fighting stance. She tried her hardest, but her body failed her. Her mind was strong, but her body simply couldn't keep up. She failed at getting into a fighting stance. She fell, now completely unconscious. Her mother was there in a second, though, and she caught the falling girl.

"I think I just knocked you unconscious." Koriand'r spoke to her daughter, knowing that she could not hear her, as she lovingly stroked her hair. She flew the two of them to the interior of the palace, and she was met on the balcony of the training courtyard, by the impressed expression of her older sister, and the knowing expression of her younger brother.

Kori set her daughter down on the hard, yet supportive, mattress in her room. She exited the room, shutting the door behind her. She turned around to see her siblings still standing there, their expressions now unreadable.

"…_What_…?..." she asked the two.

"You're pushing her _too_ hard." Ryand'r stated blatantly.

Koriand'r sighed. She was ready to agree with him, that is, until her sister spoke up.

"No, you're not." Komand'r intervened, giving her brother a warning glance, as he stood his ground, returning her glare. "She will be better for this in the long-run." she finished her explanation.

Kori nodded. "It's just, that, _sometimes_, I feel like she might grow-up to hate me like how _you_ hated me." she replied, looking at her sister.

Komand'r looked taken aback. Koriand'r did _not _bring up that terrible part of their past—not unless she was making a point, a _very valid _point. "Yes, but the fact is, that even after all I put you through, _you forgave me_. I could _never _have done that. I _imprisoned _you. I _tortured _you. And _you_, you _forgave_ me. She has _your _genes, Star. _Not_ mine. I'm the crazy one, remember?" Komand'r addressed her sister.

Now it was Kori who looked taken aback. Her sister had meant _every _word that she had said, but, that was not what had stuck-out to her. She had not been referred to as "_Star_," or "_Starfire_," in quite some time. It was a term of endearment between the two. Kori had to agree with almost everything that her sister had just said—all _except _one crucially untrue statement.

"She may not be your daughter, but she _still_ has insanity in her genes." Kori replied to her sister's last comment.

Komand'r raised an eyebrow. "…_What_…?" was all she could muster in response. Her purple irises gleamed with curiosity; they looked directly into her sister's emerald eyes, her "snake eyes," as their soldiers often referred to them.

"Did you forget who her _father_ is?" Kori asked, looking deeper into her sister's eyes.

Komand'r chuckled. No, she remembered who the father was. Yeah, the kid was doomed to go insane. The _entire_ half of her father's family was insane—brave, but insane.

"Yeah, I remember—" Komand'r started, but she was cut-off, by a young messenger, who ran into the palace's main hall, where they were currently situated. The long, ornately decorated, hall was a ways for the young boy to travel, but he made it to the three at the far end of the hallway without losing a single breath. He was trained to do so—as _most _Tamaranians were.

"_YOUR HIGHNESSES_!" the boy shouted at the top of lungs, just as he reached the three.

Ryand'r rolled his eyes. "…_Ughh_… What _is_ it, Vart'y?" he asked the boy, slightly annoyed at the interruption.

"The one know as '_Sun-Storm_,' has shown himself once again. He has amassed a larger following than he had during the last conflict. He is invading the Rann region! If we do not assist the forces there, he will overrun them! The '_Council of Conflict_,' calls for your great intervention!" the boy finished, bowing as he did so, and leaving the same way he came.

Ryand'r spoke up first. "Alright. Let's go." he said, attempting to leave his sisters' sides. He was stopped, as Komand'r grabbed his wrist.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" she asked him, in a protective tone that seemed both protective, and threatening.

He snatched his hand away from her grip. "To _kill_ SunStorm." he responded somberly.

"Do you have short-term memory loss? Don't you remember what happened the _last_ time you fought him?" she asked her apparently-insane younger brother.

Ryand'r grew a little more furious. "Of _COURSE_ I do!" he said, and, as he did so, he pointed to the noticeable scar above his right eye. His amber eyes glowed with fury and hate, just as his fists illuminated with an amber aura, and his temper peaked. "Why do you think I want to _kill_ him?" he asked her angrily.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Fine. But, you're _not_ going alone. You can take "_SunStorm_." But, _I_ got his psycho girlfriend." she replied, smirking. Ryand'r remembered the bloody pulp that "_FluxFury_" had put his sister into the last time they had fought. She smirked at thinking what she would do to get revenge. He nodded in response. The two siblings turned to their other.

"You gonna be okay watching things here for a while?" he asked Koriand'r.

Koriand'r nodded. "_GO_! Before the entire Rann region is demolished!" she yelled, and the two siblings took off, running.

"…And, don't forget to take the '_Fifth Fatal Fighters Division_!' They are the most well-equipped, to handle SunStrom's armies!" she yelled after her two retreating siblings. Ryand'r gave her a thumbs-up, as he and his sister rushed down the large main hall, and straight into battle.

Kori turned her attention to her own bedroom door, which was some distance off the main hall's main corridor, in its east wing. She entered the room, and she silently shut the door behind her. She gazed up at the picture of her deceased parents, and she remembered all of the terrible and tough decisions that they had to make to ensure their people's safety.

They had even had to sacrifice _her_—their own daughter—to _savages_ to end a losing war. They had regretted it every day since, but she had forgiven them, although they never stopped feeling guilty. It wasn't their fault though. It was her sister's fault. She chuckled.

She didn't know why, but she actually chuckled at the fact that her sister had sold her out to a band of bloodthirsty alien invaders. She really hated her sister. But, then again, she loved her too. Her sentiments towards her sister didn't make sense, but, then again, after Kori had spent so much time on Earth, almost _nothing _she did made _any _sense. Perhaps she was insane.

She was too nice for her own good. Dick had often told her that on many occasions. Her eyes widened in realization. Dick. Richard. She turned her attention to the item on her dresser. She gently picked it up and inspected it. It was a small yellow device inscribed with "_TT_" on its central surface—her Teen Titans Communicator. She sighed, hoping that things were in better shape on Earth than they were on Tamaran. She hoped this. But, her hopes were futile. Things were truly terrible. _Everywhere_.

* * *

><p>A blonde-haired girl walked throughout the streets of Gotham City. Her cold blue eyes scanned the streets around her. One of those cold eyes looked like it did not belong, like it was a correction to a mistake. Above her right eye was a barely noticeable scar, and upon closer inspection, it looked as though it was formerly a trivial injury. Those who knew her, though, would guess otherwise. She had not been to Gotham City in a very long time. She did not come here. She did not know why she did not come here—or so she told herself. The truth was, however, that she knew <em>exactly <em>why she did not come here. She was not afraid—_never _afraid.

What did _she _have to be afraid of? The creatures of the night? No. She _was _one of those creatures.

She continued to walk the lonely streets, seeing no one and hearing nothing, yet _knowing_ where, how, and when _everything _was. She was well-trained to do that—observe _everything, without _even acknowledging _anything_. She felt awkward without a mask—naked, almost. Although, feeling naked was not an awkward feeling for her. On the contrary, she was happy to make _others _feel uncomfortable with her lack-of-embarrassment. She chuckled.

She dug her hand into her pocket, and she felt some solace in grabbing the lighter contained therein. But it was not much comfort. She had a lighter, but she had no cigarettes. She sighed. She wondered why she had quit. The she remembered, and she nearly kicked herself for asking in the first place. She had quit because _he _had asked her to.

Why the hell did he even care? She sighed again. She had a hunch about that, but she felt it best to not take that path. She had already experienced psychosis once. She had no need to do it again. He was probably dead. Then, if that was the case, and she _truly believed _that, why was she here—here in Gotham?

This city had enough criminals. It needed a hero. No. This city _ate_ its heroes. It needed something…_more_. She sighed again. She was no hero. She was barely human anymore. Physically, she was all and only human. But, mentally, she was _far_ from human. She had experienced things that few others could withstand, especially while keeping their humanity. She had withstood those things, though, and it had only served to make her stronger.

She knew of only one other person who not only could withstand similar things—but who _did_. She knew that train of thought ended painfully, so she pushed it from her mind. She sighed. Why was she sighing so much? She _hated _sighing. It showed an air of uncertainty, of doubt, of weakness. She had been trained, ironically by two mortal enemies, _not _to _ever_ show either uncertainty, or weakness.

She reached into her pocket again and found the lighter.

'_Dammit! I shouldn't have listened to him!_' she thought to herself. He was dead, anyways! What did it matter if she kept her promise? It was the last piece of him that she had, but she wanted no part of it. It was too painful for even her to think about. She cursed herself for feeling this weak—this _pathetic_. She could handle pain—_a lot_ of pain—but this was more painful than even she could have fathomed. He had tried to _kill_ her! Who would miss someone who had tried, and almost successfully so, to kill them?

She would. He gave her a challenge, and, using that challenge, she pushed herself, _hard. _Without that need to push herself, to drive herself, she felt herself slipping, and the part of her that she liked—one of the _only_ parts of herself that she liked—was the part the he pushed her to improve upon.

He liked much more than that part of her, though, but he would never admit it. She was angry now, as her emotions flew through her head. She knew of only two things that could quell her anger: a cigarette or someone's head to slice off. She continued walking and she soon found her saving grace; it was the latter: a head to slice. Her blade had a new target, one that she would be happy to _kill_.

She knew that she would find the target of her blade, but, before she could do so, she had to attend to the victim in front of her. The girl was near death, and she was lying in a pool of her own body fluid—not just blood, but saliva and vomit as well. The sight of it made the blonde angry, and she had never been angrier than right now.

_All _of her anger, _all _of her contempt—for the world, for her father, for _herself_—exploded, and she approached the girl. She bent down, and she checked her vitals. She was still alive—_barely. _Her dirty brown hair had noticeable reddish-black highlights. The highlights were natural, and the blonde immediately noted this as unusual. The odds of having natural hair in _that _fashion were unlikely, to say the least.

She looked closer at the girl, and, although the grime and grit that had accumulated around the girl's face, hair, and mouth was plentiful, the blonde still reasoned that she was somewhat "_cute_." The blonde shouldered the girl carefully, and she proceeded to make her way—quite quickly—to the nearest hospital.

She entered the emergency room, and the nearest triage nurse—although they were obviously swamped—immediately began attending to the wounded girl. The small girl looked to be about ten years of age—perhaps a little older. The blonde stayed with the girl, until she regained consciousness. It was nighttime by that point. Perfect.

The girl was in her bed in her hospital room, her tubes attached, fluids flowing to her body at different points, and through different vessels. The blonde was beside her on her hospital bed, and she tried her best not to move or disturb the girl.

The sight of seeing the girl this weak reminded the blonde of a terrible time from her own childhood—if she could even call what she had been subjected to a "childhood," that is—and the blonde's anger flared up, once again.

The girl squirmed, and her eyes gently came undone, as they opened, to reveal the dark brown irises that starred intently at the blonde's brutal blue eyes. The blonde bent down, and she gently asked the girl, as softly as she could, who had done this to her.

Her response came slowly and chopped-up, but it came, nonetheless.

"A few big guys… …Wearing big metal masks…" the young girl whispered, trailing off. The blonde removed her ear from by the side of the young girl, and she removed herself from the girl's bedside. She got up and attempted to leave the girl's hospital room. She knew who she was after: Venom addicts. Good, she needed at least a _slight _challenge. She was at the threshold of the room's door, when the girl's small voice made the blonde turn around.

"…_Wh-Where _are y-you going?" she asked the blonde, using all of her remaining energy—which wasn't much—to turn and face her.

The blonde smirked at the girl. She liked this kid, and she didn't like too many children. "Don't worry. I'll be back by the time you wake up." she replied honestly.

The girl nodded. "Th-Thank you." the girl said, softly.

For the first time in a very long time, the blonde cracked a smile. "You're welcome. Now get some sleep." she ordered the girl as gently as she could. She seemed to take it kindly, though, as the girl nodded, and rested her head on her pillow, closing her eyes. '_Good_,' the blonde thought to herself. She walked out of the hospital, and she went to do what she did best: _kill_. Rose Wilson left the hospital, and for the first time in many years, Ravager stalked the streets of Gotham.

* * *

><p>It was the day after she had read the headline, and she <em>still <em>couldn't get his picture out of her mind. She just couldn't. He had made an appearance in her nightmare last night, and, as disappointed as she was in herself for doing it, she had woken up screaming. Her father had rushed into her room, and she was eagerly embarrassed. Laura Grayson did _not _get frightened.

Still, though, there was a reason that he plagued her so much. She was determined to find out why. Laura sat there in class, thinking of nothing else—nothing else, but that man's face. She had spent all her time in the library looking up articles, news, and other media, concerning The Joker. She had most of his past crimes, partners—although, he mostly ended-up "ending" his past "partners"—and his general MO memorized, right down to the dates.

He was cruel. He was efficient. He was insane, yet he was somehow sane, _very sane_. He was _skilled, very skilled_. She _hated _that she was this obsessed. She couldn't help it, though. It was just…him. The way he looked. His makeup. His knife. His expression. The _way _he…looked. It was scary, she had to admit it, and she _hated _admitting that she was afraid—afraid of _anything_—but, there was something _else_ that had grabbed her attention as well. He was just…

"…_Laura_…?..." a voice snapped her out of her reverie. She looked up to see Matt's face a few inches from her own. He was so close to her that the heat that radiated from him washed over her face. She had to hide that small amount of blush that crept into her cheeks. She did so by acting rude and abrasive. It worked—it _always _worked.

"…_WHAT_?" she roared in response. Her blush from before had now completely visibly vanished from her cheeks, and Matt drew his face back a few inches. He was surprised at her outburst, but he was not insulted. He was used to this. He smirked.

"…_Sorry_ that I interrupted your '_deep train of thought_.'" he retorted. She rolled her eyes.

"What do you want, Maxim?" she replied, using his last name to emphasize the fact that she was annoyed with him.

"Well, I just wanted your opinion on something." Matt responded.

It was then that Laura noticed a girl that was currently behind Matt, her face anxious and apprehensive. It was the face of Lucy Myola. She was afraid. She was _always _afraid. It was endearing, but it was also a quick way to die in this city. Laura _really wanted _to be disgusted by the girl's constant fear of _everything_, but she just couldn't. She was too sweet to be angry at. Instead, Laura had taken to being more of a "protector," towards her. "What's the matter, now, Luce?" she questioned her timid friend.

Matt spoke on her behalf, as she was obviously too shell shocked to respond. This—whatever "_this_" was—was serious. Lucy was acting too weird and too afraid—even for _her_. She seemed to be unable to talk.

"…_Well_… …Luce was just kind of wondering…" Matt trailed off.

"Spit it out." she commanded. He chuckled. He loved her abrasiveness.

"..._Well_… …She was wondering, what you thought about Batman coming back?" he stated, making her question seem like his own.

"…_What_?" she responded, unsure of what the question was.

"…_Well_… …She was just kind of freaking out about The Joker—you know, Lucy—and she was wondering if Batman would come back, just like The Joker did, to stop him." Matt replied.

Laura looked at him.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" she questioned him.

"…She doesn't want you to give her a definite answer, but, you know how much she respects you, and she just wants to know what you _think_." Matt said, trying very hard to make his point clear.

Laura turned to face Lucy, her hazel eyes staring deep into Lucy's golden ones. "…You respect my opinion _that _much?" she asked her friend.

Lucy nodded.

Laura sighed.

"…_Well_… …Statistically speaking—and, this is only going by what the records, and past events have shown—whenever The Joker returns, so does Batman." Laura explained to her friend, and Lucy let out a deep sigh—apparently one that she had been holding in for ages and the slight breeze she created blew a strand of her red hair from her face.

Matt looked at Laura in thanks, and she returned his stare, but her stare said, '_Just you wait. I'm not done, yet_.' Matt saw this expression and he gently shook his head, so as to give Laura a signal, but not to have Lucy see. Lucy constantly needed to be told that everything was going to be okay.

That got really annoying at times, but, surprisingly, Laura had managed with her pretty well. However, there were some—more like _many_—occasions, where Laura simply wanted to "snap" Lucy out of her fear-induced state, and thus, when Laura felt like giving her friend a scare—one that she felt Lucy had deserved—she did so without hesitation. The problem was, that it usually made Lucy go slightly insane, or worse, cry. Matt _never _wanted to see Lucy cry—for multiple reasons. Laura was unstoppable when it was one of those times, though. This was one of those times.

"…_However_…" Laura trailed off, and Lucy picked up on her tone almost immediately.

"…_However, WHAT_?" Lucy asked her friend, her anxiety now skyrocketing.

"It won't do much good." she replied.

Matt turned to face his friend, with an odd expression on his face. He couldn't believe what she was saying. Although Matt didn't want to Lucy cry, he _did_ want to hear what Laura had to say—_especially_ after the comment she had just made.

Lucy looked at her friend, wide-eyed. "…_What _won't do much good?" she asked.

"Batman." Laura responded.

"…_WHAT_? What do you mean?" Lucy asked, now very interested, and, at the same time, very petrified.

"Batman won't help with The Joker. …Actually, he won't help with _any _of it—the crime, the poverty, _anything_." Laura explained. Lucy got up from her seat, and dismissed herself from the class, storming out of the room, starting to cry.

Matt wanted to go comfort her, but wanted to hear what Laura had to say more. Mr. Donavan looked at the door, where the crying girl had just disappeared through moments before, and his confused look disappeared, as he continued giving his biology lesson. Matt turned back to Laura, who was, once again, thinking of the man with the makeup.

Matt looked at her notebook. It was empty and devoid of notes. That was _very unlike _her. She _always _took notes. She must have been _very _preoccupied to not be taking notes. He was about to speak to her, when Mr. Donavan addressed Matt and told him to turn around, and stop talking to Ms. Grayson.

He obeyed, grudgingly. He wanted to hear what Laura meant by her earlier comments, and, while he knew that she _could _have been joking, he _knew _that she wasn't. She meant every word that she had told Lucy, and that's what scared him. She really didn't think that Batman could help. Matt had to disagree. But, he had never gotten the chance. Mr. Donovan continued giving his lesson, and, although Laura was zoned-out, something Mr. Donovan said grabbed Laura's attention, and she suddenly perked up. She looked intently at her teacher, and he stopped speaking for a moment. She raised her hand.

"…_Yes_, Laura?" he asked her warily.

"What did you just say about viruses?" she asked him.

"…_Ahem_… …Yes, well… …I was discussing the general characteristics of a virus, and the—" he was interrupted by the girl, once again.

"…Yeah… …Um, would you mind stating that part over again?" she asked him. As she posed her question, she untied her ponytail, and ran her fingers through her long raven hair. It was an unconscious action, and she did not even realize that she was performing the action, but someone did. Matt could not help but stare at her like she would vanish in a second. Matt quickly caught what he was doing, and he turned away, a very noticeable amount of blush creeping into his cheeks.

If she thought her blush earlier was bad, she would have mocked him for weeks for seeing him do that. He cursed himself for letting her do that to him, especially when she wasn't even trying. She quickly retied her ponytail, not noticing the inflamed boy in front of her.

Mr. Donavan repeated what he said about viruses. He said that they were not actually living organisms, because they could not reproduce without having a host to reproduce _for_ them, and, thus, they did _not _fit _all three _of the fundamental characteristics of life. He said that they were referred to as "agents," instead of "organisms." He said that they could spread like wildfire, and he also said, that, because they _never _"alive," that "killing" them would be impossible. Laura processed everything just as fast as he had said it. She responded just as quickly as she had processed the information.

"…So… …Would you say that '_violence_' is a virus?" she asked him. He looked at her in disbelief, and he was about to respond in the negative, until he caught himself, and she saw his face contort into an expression of deep thought.

He was slow to respond at first, but he did so, nonetheless. "…_Well_… …Yes, I _suppose_ that it actually _could_ be considered a virus, as it _does_ meet all of the characteristics of a virus." he replied, a little shocked by the implication of his own words.

"…And what, exactly, would you say is the best way to _eliminate_ a virus?" she asked him. He answered this one quite quickly.

"…_Ah_… …Now, that one, I can answer. The _best _way to rid oneself of a virus, is with a cure, or with an antivirus." he replied.

"…And, would you say that an '_anti-virus_,' although very different from the original virus, would act in _almost the exact same way_, as the original?" she inquired, her eagerness and interest growing with each new question and answer.

He thought for a second. "…_Well_… …_Yes_. In a matter of speaking, an antivirus, although it is designed to kill the original virus, does _exactly _what the original virus does, but the _only _difference is that, instead of aiming its malicious attempts at the host, it aims it at the original virus." he explained. He looked at her face. She understood, but he could tell that she wanted more out of his answer, but she would not ask for it, so he continued. "…_And_… …If we were talking about _your _example—_violence_, for example—then the appropriate antivirus for '_violence_' would be—"

"_More _violence?" she finished for him.

"…_Yes_. Of course, it would have to be aimed at the direction _opposite _the original virus, but yes, you get the point." he finished, and he continued to move on with his lesson.

But he was right. She did get the point. This city had a virus. And it needed a cure. The joker didn't _use _violence. He _was_ violence. He was a _virus_. That's why Batman hadn't been effective on him. He was hero, and a good one at that, but this city didn't need a hero. It needed a _cure_. An antivirus. Someone who was _just as violent_ as The Joker—only in the opposite direction. The same, but different. Laura went back into her thoughts—most of them concerning a clown and a virus.

**A/N: Well, THANKS for reading! PLEASE Rate, AND, Review! Oh, and, I know what you're thinking! Has NightStar (Mar'i—StarFire's Daughter, Who Is NOT An OC, So Look Her up!) ever been to Earth? Does she know who her father is? Do you? Well, stay tuned to find out find out. Anyways, please R&R, and stay tuned for the next update!**


	4. Retribution

**Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics, or anything associated with said franchise. I also do NOT McDonald's, or ANYTHING associated with said franchise, as I mention them in this chapter.**

**Accolades/Appreciation: Thank you to ALL of you have reviewed, favorited, subscribed, and/or, otherwise contributed constructively to this story's progress, as I take into account ANY/ALL reviews, comments, and/or ratings, and I use them to correct mistakes (MOSTLY Grammatical Mistakes—Because, Although I Proofread A LOT, This Is A VERY LENGTHY/LONG FanFic, And Thus, It Is Difficult To Revise/Rewrite COMPLETELY, But I Have CAUGHT MANY/MOST Of My Mistakes, And Corrected Them—As My Organization, And Plot Already Have An Outline, And Are Usually Mistake-Free), so as to make the story more enjoyable for ALL who are reading it, AND for all those will be reading it in the future. Once again, thanks, and I greatly appreciate it! Don't stop now! ONWARD!**

**IV. Retribution**

John sighed as he surveyed the wall before him. The wall was a terrible reminder for him. It was a reminder of all that had happened—of all that he had _lost_. It reminded of all that _everyone _had lost. It reminded of the heroes that once were.

The aged, experienced, drained, trained, dark-skinned man had eyes that were heavy with emotion, as he continued to scan the vast and vacant steel wall in front of him. He was currently gazing—and very intently gazing, at that—at the large central wall in the old "_Justice League Watch-Tower_." The large steel wall in front of him contained the symbols, icons, names (but none of their secret identities), commendations, lists of accomplishments, honors, badges, and other representations of the world's best, brightest, and bravest heroes.

They were all lost, tired of fighting, crippled, or otherwise dead. They were dead, and the wall that held their memories was covered in soot, blackened by the large conflicts, bloody battles, and struggles for survival—for _both _the villains, _and _the heroes—that had taken place in and around the Watch-Tower since the "_Hero Hunting_."

The wall itself looked like a terrible, torn, and trashy mess, but this was not the most demeaning, degrading, or otherwise distracting aspect of the Tower that John currently stood in.

He sighed once again, and he turned his head to view the shattered and tattered remains of the living quarters of the "_Justice League_." The room, its furniture, and almost all of the items it held were in ruins, broken, shattered, or otherwise, _completely destroyed_.

John's dark, jaded, well-trained eyes caught sight of the viewport of the Watch-Tower, and he, for slightest of moments, was lost in the vastness of the blackness of space that surrounded not only the Tower, but that surrounded himself as well. He sighed for the third time in mere minutes, and he turned his attention back to the wall in front of him.

The wall was worn, torn, and blackened, but it was still very readable. John's hand slowly, surely, and hesitantly graced the yellow lightning symbol that had been blackened, and that now had a slight green tinge to it.

The symbol had been seared by the "_Hero Hunter_," that had been assigned to kill the hero "_Green_ _Fury_." Green Fury's Hero Hunter was infused with her DNA and genetic information, and thus, she had her pyrokinetic abilities as well. Thus, the Hero Hunter had burned "_The Flash_" symbol with her green flame, and although she was in the middle of a fight to the finish at the time, it was a small and easily accomplished task for her.

Green Fury had put up an excellent fight, though. She had managed to _severely _injure her Hunter, but in the end she had been beaten, leaving her Hero Hunter free and able to assist the other Hunters in their attack on the Justice League.

John took a deep moment to seriously chastise himself for not being here when the Hunters had come—when they had attacked. He could have helped. He could have made a difference. The Four had managed to correctly copy, implement, and grow the DNA and genetic information of many heroes into their trained Hero Hunters, and as such, these Hunters now had the same abilities, skills, and training—or _more _training, as was often the case—as the hero that they were assigned to "_hunt_."

"_The Green Lanterns_," however, had not had a problem dealing with their Hero Hunters because, while the Hunters were _extremely _well-trained, well-skilled killers, who had their target's DNA in their system, they were no match for the Lanterns. This was due to the simple fact that the Lanterns' power came from their rings, and _not _from their own bodies or biological systems. Had all of the Green Lanterns been on Earth at the time of the "_Hero Hunting_," they would have made a serious difference, and John knew that. He wasn't there, though. He didn't help. He hated that he didn't help.

He looked up at the lightning symbol once again. He had lost his friend, his _closest _friend. The Flash was dead. They were _all _dead. Wally West was dead. Barry Allen was dead. Jay Garrick was dead. Iris West was dead. Jai refused to don the costume, and even if he could, he had been sapped of almost _all _of his abilities, and what had happened to Bart, no one really knew, nor cared.

They had a valid reason for not caring, though. It wasn't like Bart could make difference. He was only one man, speedster or not. The Flash Family was dead. The Bat Family was crippled. The Green Lanterns were out of commission. The Kryptonians had all been killed or crippled—all _except _for Kara and Sam, but no one knew where Kara had taken off to, and Sam was too young, and to unstable and distraught to do what her father or brother had done.

Samantha Lane _knew _that she was unstable, though, and she _hated _herself for it. The Amazons, albeit strong and determined to the end, were gone, and with them, went their ways, their knowledge, and their logic went as well. John silently wondered who, if anyone, was left to defend this decrepit and dying world.

He looked down at his own power ring, which was currently locked tightly in place on his right middle finger. He looked intently at it for a moment, and then he sighed more deeply than he had ever sighed in his entire life. He had failed. John Stewart did _not _fail, yet here he was: a failure.

The "_Emerald Energy_" which surrounded his body was weak and faded. His adventures, his exploits, his training, his _many _near-death experiences, and life in general had taken its toll on the man, and it showed. He was twice the man he was in experience, but he was _half _the man he was in power or will. He was a Green lantern, and he was lacking willpower. That was simply an oxymoron, an unfortunate, degrading, inconvenient truth.

He wondered if Hal felt the same way. He sighed for fifth time. Hal. Hal hadn't even let the color green pass through his mind since the Earth had been paid a visit by Nekron, and he had to summon the power of the "_White Lanterns_," in order to defeat him.

The physical and mental toll that it had taken on Hal was immense, and the man scarcely wanted to relive that experience. After that, Hal had a new respect for life, and a new _fear _of it as well. He took this respect and this fear, and he took the opportunity to tell Jennifer Maxim that he loved her. He wasn't going to lose her—not like he lost Kari, or for that matter like he lost _Carol_.

According to the last piece of information that John had heard, Hal still recruited, met, and trained a few plausible choices for future Green Lanterns. But ever since the "_Sinestro Wars_," the "_Black Lantern Wars_," and the emergence and implementation of the "_Shadow Slayers_," by their leader, Vandal Savage, _many _of these new Green Lanterns had been targeted and killed, and unfortunately, their rings destroyed as well.

John cringed slightly at the thought of the "_Shadow Slayers_." They were Savage's latest creations, and they were his "solution" to the Green Lantern Corps. They were Hero Hunters, like the rest, except they had one clear advantage, or "upgrade," over the other Hunters.

They had power rings, and an _extensive _knowledge of how to use them. Although this was true, however, their rings used the "_Switched Shadow Spectrum_," or the _reversed _version of the _original _version of the "_Emotion Spectrum_." The Emotion Spectrum, although ancient and old in thought and implementation, was still a useful tool for keeping order in the universe.

Each of the seven colors of visible light spectrum represented, and controlled, a different, tangible emotion, and when a ring-bearer was chosen by a power ring of that color, it was because the potential ring-bearer had demonstrated an _immense_ use, possession, and control over the emotion that the ring used to wield its power.

At the _far _end of the spectrum, was the "_Red Lantern Corps_," whose members were fueled by _rage_, and on the other extreme of the spectrum, was the "_Star Sapphires_," who were fueled by the emotion of _love_. In the _direct middle _of the original Emotion Spectrum was the color green, whose main emotion was _willpower_, and the chosen ring-bearers of Green Lantern Power Rings, Green Lanterns themselves, kept the other Corps in-check.

Unfortunately, Savage was able to take this Emotion Spectrum, and _literally_ flip it. In this new, _destructive_, spectrum, these new colors, or _abscesses_, as Savage called them—as they weren't truly colors, but more the _absence _of any color—had the _exact _opposite effect as their corresponding original color had in the original emotion Spectrum.

The most useful—useful to Vandal Savage anyways—of these new _abscesses_, was the abscess of green, which allowed the user of an emerald _abscess_ ring to enforce their _own _willpower, _over _others. Savage's ideal goal was to merge all of the new abscess colors into one, immensely powerful ring, and thus outfit this ring, either on himself, or on his most-trusted and most well-trained Hero Hunter.

Savage had created many Hero Hunters, who were now outfitted with green abscess power rings, and as such, they went to do battle with the Green Lantern Corps. The results were disastrous. The aftermath of the battles had the central city of Planet Oa, the main refuge for the Green Lanterns, looking _very _similar—at least in color_—_to the main lair of the Red Lantern Corps.

The Green Lanterns had put up much more of a fight than Savage had ever expected, and the Green Lanterns had won the battles, but Savage _never _expected his creations to be so effective. The Green Lanterns had won the ensuing battles in the infamous "_Shadow Slayer_ _Conflicts_," but their cost was grave and dire. Their numbers had been _drastically reduced_.

Savage had since named his new "creations" "_Shadow Slayers_," and John knew very well that he was far from done with them.

Hal Jordan blamed himself for _a lot_ of what had happened during that time. Hal had become increasingly worried, and guilty. He felt that _every time _a Lantern died, that _he _should have taken his or her place. His worry then began to extend to his girlfriend at the time, Jennifer Maxim. He had even tried to give her his own power ring, for her own protection.

However, when she had learned of his true identity and the reasons for his constant disappearances, she was not only relived, but rather excited. Soon, she found herself with child, and Hal now _insisted _that she take the ring. She still refused, stating that as long as he was there, she would not have to worry about defending herself.

Hal, however, argued that he was old, tired, "out-of-shape," worn-down by life itself, and tired of using the ring, and as such, he would be a _terrible _defender to his soon-to-be wife and his young son. She disagreed. Hal took this as a clue, and he left her. He left Gotham City, leaving his small son, the love of his life, and his Green Lantern Power Ring, in his wake.

Hal had left with tears in his eyes, but they were nothing compared to the tears in Jennifer's eyes, when she had tracked down John, and asked him to—no, _made _him—take Hal's former power ring. She wanted _nothing _to do with it, _or_ him. Hal, after hearing this, tried his best to get her to reconsider, but she refused at every advance he made and at every step he took. She was done with him. She still loved him, but she was _done _with him.

That didn't stop Hal from coming around Gotham City, though. Almost _nothing _could stop Hal Jordan. It was an inevitable fact. He still loved her as well, and his son needed a father, so Hal was intent on giving him one.

John chuckled. John Stewart was chuckling, and he did _not _chuckle. Hal was_ unstoppable_. If only he would put his ring back on, the world might not be so devoid of heroes, but John knew better. Once Hal had his mind set, it was impossible to deter or change him.

John and Hal were the _only _two human Green Lanterns remaining. Guy was dead. Kyle was dead. John knew that Alan had died as well, but that had happened _long _before, by the hands of a Gotham vigilante—one named "_The Reaper_,"—and John had not known him personally, and thus it did not affect him as much as the deaths of the others.

The Green Lantern sighed for the sixth consecutive time since he had come to the Tower, and he shoved his hand in his suit's left pocket, and there, in his protective pocket, he felt the ring that he had kept for so long—Hal's ring.

John's gaze had refocused on the wall in front of him. His dark eyes locked on the lightning symbol once again. The faded, blackened, yellow-green symbol of a lightning bolt in front of him was at the top of the wall. It was in the section designated for "_The Original Seven_"—the original founders of the Justice League. Beside the Flash's symbol was a chaotic pink hex symbol.

John chuckled once again. Jinx was _not _a founding member of the League, but she had her symbol beside Wally's for one simple reason: even Bruce Wayne would not argue with her. She was _very _convincing. It was only suitable that her symbol be directly next to Wally's icon. Just as John thought this, he remembered why he had come to this place in the first place—to this _tomb_. He had come to get something for _their _daughter.

He had come to get Jinx's necklace for Control. He wasn't exactly sure how the pendant on Jinx's necklace affected Control's telekinesis, but somehow they did, and he didn't question it. If she needed it, then he would get it for her, and that was just what he intended to do.

He loved those two like his _own _flesh and blood, and although he _rarely_ showed this, they knew it. Wally had entrusted them to him, and John would _not _fail his friend. Chaos and Control—"_The Schism Siblings_," as they cleverly called themselves—were fraternal twins, and the biological children of Wally West and Jinx. Wally had left Linda many years before he and Jinx had rekindled their relationship, but he had done so, _only _to protect her. He had done so because of the "_Speed Stealers_."

The "_Speed Stealers_," as they called themselves, had set their sights on their Flash Family, and as such, Wally leaving Linda was the only way he saw to protect them. The Speed Stealers were not only chaotic, cruel, and ceaseless, but the fact that they could rob one of _all _of his or her speed, metabolisms, and motion, simply by coming into contact with them and reversing their own molecular speed, made them walking speedster killers.

They had been sent by the organization called "_Cadmus_"—one dedicated, to "preserving order and peace—and although Cadmus was intended to be a global governmental force for good, they did more harm than good.

The Speed Stealers were sent in by Cadmus in order to deal with the "carless," and supposedly useless, speedsters, and they performed their "duties," with effectiveness, and efficiency.

"_The Tornado Twins_" were the first two to suffer the wrath of the Speed Stealers. Don was killed, and his sister had barely managed to escape alive. When Wally heard about the attack, he took it personally. They had attacked _his family_. His cousin. They had killed his cousin. Wally explained everything to Linda and his children, and he promised to keep them safe, but he failed.

The Speed Stealers found his daughter—who was then operating as the third "_Kid Flash_" at the time, which was something that Wally seriously disapproved of—and they tortured her, to the point of near-death. They wanted her to reveal her father's secret identity, but she never did. That violent invasion upon his life made Wally want to kill the Speed Stealers.

He could _not _handle putting his family in danger, so he left them, and he told them that he was not to return until he could do so without threatening his family's safety. He left, and he began to hunt the Speed Stealers, and he did _not _intend to arrest or detain them. He intended to _kill_ them.

Iris, Wally's daughter, believed that he had left because of her supposed "weakness," and her inability to take the torture that had been inflicted upon her. She constantly believed that her father never wanted to take up "_The Flash_" title, because she wasn't worthy.

The truth was, however, that he didn't want her to do so, because he didn't want her to put herself in danger. No matter how much she disbelieved it, he _was _proud of her, and he _always _would be. When her father had sent her his old Flash costume for her sixteenth birthday, she finally realized what his real reservations were about her becoming the new Flash.

But then again, if she didn't do it, no one would. Her brother was far too uninterested in the "hero business," and Wally actually seemed to like that uncaring attitude in his son. Wally's son, Jai, never really expressed interest, of _any _kind in using his abilities, for _anything _other than helping himself.

Wally noticed this in his son, and eventually, he gave into his daughter's wish to become "_The Flash_." He gave her his old costume, not only because he was proud of her, but also because he had no further use for it. He was no longer a "hero" in the traditional sense of the word, as he had begun to _kill _his enemies. Thus he had abandoned "_The Flash_" persona, for a more effective title: "_Burnout_." When Wally became Burnout, he became brutal.

Wally made his way around the world, annihilating the Speed Stealers. He and Dawn Allen, his cousin and the sister of the late Don Allen, began to track the killers. The hunters became the hunted. Wally made an effective job of tracking, and terminating them _all_. He had missed some though, and those last few targets took him to India, which is where the _unexpected_ happened.

He never expected to meet the supervillain that had single-handedly been responsible for bringing "_Captain Marvel_" to his knees. He hadn't expected to meet the villain who had, on more than one occasion, tried to kill him. He hadn't expected to meet the villain who was a former member of the "_Teen Titans_," the villain who wasn't _really _a villain. He hadn't expected to meet Jinx.

He hadn't expected to meet the villain he had been in love with so many years before, and that she would be in a fight of her own. He hadn't expected that she would have agreed to help him, so long as he reciprocated and helped her as well. He _had _expected that she had a score to settle with "_Madam Rouge_," but he hadn't expected that he would assist her in settling that score. He hadn't expected to fight back to back with her.

He hadn't expected her to save his life—instead of trying to end it. He hadn't expected that he would also save her own life. He hadn't expected to fall in love with her _again_.

He hadn't expected to have her join the Justice League. He hadn't expected that she suggest that he stop being "_Burnout_," and return to his former title of "_The Flash_." He hadn't expected to find that Iris was more than happy to relive herself of her Flash costume, to assume the alias of "_Impulse_" instead.

He hadn't expected that Linda would suggest that he not pretend to love her anymore. He hadn't expected that Linda would have filed for divorce, upon seeing that her husband was happier with the enchantress, and suggest that he was only trying to please Linda by lying to her.

He hadn't expected that his former wife, and _very recent _ex-wife, would suggest that he propose to the pick haired girl. He hadn't expected Jinx to turn him down. He hadn't expected the pink-haired girl to, instead of marrying him, say that that she loved him as well. He hadn't expected to have two more children, with _her_. There were a lot of things that Wally had not expected. Yet, they had all happened.

Linda _had _expected _all _of that. Iris had as well, but she would never have admitted it.

John sighed—for the seventh and most dire time. He was done with these haunting memories.

He lifted into the air, as he gently, gracefully, floated throughout the deep hallways, recesses, and corridors that littered the interior of the Watch-Tower, and he slowly, but surely, made his way to sleeping quarters in the back of these hallways.

He stopped outside a sliding metal door, and waited. After some time, the old rusted, singed metal creaked as it slowly slid across its axis, thus revealing the room beyond. John descended to ground level, and he entered the room.

The door slid shut behind him. It was _his _room. It was the room that Wally and Jinx shared, in her short time here on the League. He made his way over to the bedside table, and he opened the drawer. There, just as Control had said, was the necklace. He swiftly snatched it up, and he proceeded to quickly vacate the Tower, necklace in his grasp. He didn't want to be here anymore.

He surrounded himself with a field of emerald energy before he left the tower, and before he flew into the unforgiving vastness of space. He created this field of energy, in order to trap the air and environmental norms inside the field with him, so as to ensure that he did not suffocate or otherwise implode in the harshness of space. Just as he redirected his path-of-travel, and began to descend into Earth's atmosphere, he saw a blur of darkness out the corner of his eye.

He knew _immediately_ what it was, but unfortunately, he also knew that he could not handle it alone. He would need _help_. He remembered the second ring that he had inside his pocket, and he quickly began to process all of the possible candidates. The recipient of the ring would need _immense willpower_. He finally decided on a recipient for the ring. The Green Lantern entered the lower-most level of Earth's atmosphere, and he headed straight towards Russia, while a squad of Emerald Shadow Slayers was quickly following on his tail. It was time for retribution.

* * *

><p>Rex walked along the streets, his torn jeans and ruffled green shirt looked like they hadn't been changed in ages. They looked that way, because they hadn't been changed in ages. Rex walked along the desert road, the sand constantly getting into his socks, his throat constantly feeling parched, and his stomach as empty as ever.<p>

He felt _all_ of these sensations, but he registered _none _of them. He could _only _think of his father. His _dead_ father. He had _hated _his father. He hated that man with _all _of his being. Then, in his dying words, his father had _made _him _love _him more than a son could ever love his father, and now the lonely boy felt as guilty as no mere mortal could ever possibly fathom.

His father had pushed him _so hard_. He had drilled him, _beyond belief_. He had taught him self-defense. He had _made _read any and _every _book that he could get his hands on. He had _made sure _that his son was _constantly _observant, and that he _knew _when, where, and how to expect danger, and what danger looked like—in _all _of its many forms.

He tested his son on _any and every _single piece of information, knowledge, defensive tactics, and overall trivia that he could _possibly _fathom. For the most part, Rex had followed his father's instruction, without question or objection, although most of the time he really wanted to object.

However, when he failed at something, when he got a question wrong, when he failed to properly block one of his father's incoming attacks, the consequences were _dire_, and very, very painful. His father was fair man, though, and he _always _explained his actions. He always told his son how unforgiving the streets were. Rex could _never _understand why he should have to be trained to the extent that his father wanted him to be trained to, though. He never understood, and he constantly_ hated _his father, until his father died.

Connor Hawke was Rex Mathis's father, and in his dying words, he explained _everything _to his confused and ashamed son. Connor only wanted his son to be safe, to be healthy, to be _alive_. He was his flesh and blood, and by extension, a part of himself, and thus he wanted nothing more than for his son to excel, and to do better.

He explained _all _of this, and more. He told Rex how he would _never _be able to be "_better_," in this world because of _him_, because of his own father. Connor Hawke was "_The Green Arrow_," and as such, he had enemies—_many _enemies. He had more enemies than he had friends. He wanted _none _of these enemies to hinder his son's success, or worse, his life. That is why he pushed his son so hard, to his limits, and _beyond _them. He _was _proud of Rex, no matter how little the boy believed it. In the end, though, Rex was _forced _to believe it.

Connor Hawke died with a gunshot wound to the chest, but the man who had fired it died with an arrow to the heart, and so did twelve of his accomplices. Connor had died, but he had taken any possible threat to his son with him. Although the threat was gone, the incident still sent Rex to the hospital.

After being injured and hospitalized, Rex was asked to name any relatives with whom he had blood connection, to name anyone he could contact. He could only think of one person: his mother. At that point, he was in a hospital in Sarajevo, Bosnia—the city where his father had died—and his mother was in Sacramento, California.

Even though this was the case, she found her way to her son as quickly as she could. She was in his hospital room the next morning. After learning of her son's fate, Marry Mathis had made contact with her son in an attempt to comfort him and rekindle some kind of relationship with him. Rex had met with her, but he had scorned her.

He asked her where _she _had been, why she wasn't there, there with his father, there with him. She tried to explain everything, but he didn't listen. She tried to explain that his father had taken him when he was just a baby, and that she had tried _very hard_, to get in touch with _either_ of them. She tried to explain that Connor had done that for her own safety, but that it had not stopped her from looking for him, or for he her son. Rex heard what his mother had said, but he left the hospital upset, and he was determined to keep her out of his life. His resolution did not last though.

Two weeks later, his mother was kidnapped. The same men who had been after his father had taken his mother. He had been forced to conclude that she was telling the truth, and that she was being honest when she told her story of how she lost contact with Connor and Rex.

Rex couldn't just sit there and allow his mother—the _one _piece of his family that he had left—to die. He was sure that he still felt some animosity towards her, but he was also sure that he loved her. So, deciding these two things, he went after her.

Using the skills, knowledge, and prowess that his father had taught him and instilled in him, he had easily and stealthily infiltrated the main compound of the armed captors of his mother, the "_Men of Masks_," as they referred to themselves. He had freed his mother, and while the two were making their escape, his apology to her came out chopped-up and somewhat rough, but it came out, nonetheless, and she gladly accepted it.

Then, at the exact moment that everything seemed to be going perfectly, everything went horribly wrong. The leader of the "_Men of Masks_," Gisborne, as he called himself, had apprehended the teenager who was responsible for the break-in of his lair. He was seething angry at the young masked teenager, and the fact that the young masked man had knocked _many _of Gisborne's men unconscious only made the situation worse.

Gisborne had Rex's hands behind his back, and he pushed tighter and tighter and made the pain worse and worse at every swiftly stupid smart-mouthed comment that the teenager made—and he made _many _such comments. He was just like his father in that regard, a smart-mouth. Gisborne had, at this point, had enough of this, and he was preparing to kill Rex.

Rex was prepared to sacrifice himself that night—sacrifice himself to save his mother. Instead, the opposite happened. His mother reentered the room that Rex had made sure she leave only moments before, and she promptly pointed-out the fact that it _she _who they wanted, _not _the child.

She pointed-out that_ she _was Green Arrow's accomplice, and that the child was just a misplaced civilian. Rex tried his best argue against her logic, but they ignored him. After hearing this, Gisborne released Rex, after a _thorough_ beating, and he proceeded to kill his mother.

Rex would _constantly _have nightmares about that night for the remainder of his young life. The hero, "_Black Bat_," had apparently been tracking Gisborne and his men for some time, and she proceeded to _end _him and his operations some time later.

Rex didn't care, though, because Black Bat had come far too late—too late to save _either _of his parents. His parents had died _because of him_, and that unforgettable and inescapable fact would haunt the young man for the rest of his foreseeable future.

Rex's dark jade eyes scanned the dusty desert road around him. The seventeen-year-old continued walking along the side of the road, not having a destination in mind. He had no target, but he simply did not want to be _here_. His dark brown hair rustled in the wind, as he continued on down the dark road. This part of Cairo, Egypt was a bad part, a _very bad _part. Rex knew that.

He had hoped that he would come across someone that he could justifiably take his anger and frustration out on. He _wanted _to encounter a criminal—a murderer, a thief, a terrorist, _anyone_. The teenager continued walking down the deserted desert road, all the while his eyes scanning anything and everything around him. He did this, so he could pinpoint the exact moment that he had entered hostile territory, just as his father had taught him to do.

He walked down the road, his eyes constantly down, yet always vigilant. Rex soon came across a close line directly in front of him, and with no one watching him, he swiftly grabbed a green hooded sweatshirt from the line and expertly pulled it over himself. He then proceeded down the road as nonchalantly as he had before he had swiped the sweater.

He pulled the hood up and over his head as he continued to walk. Cairo was a city in the middle of the desert, but regardless of that fact, it was still fatally chilly at nights. Rex continued to walk blindly towards a destination of no tangible nature. Just as he was about to change his direction and head down a different side street, he heard a cry that he could not ignore.

The boy now increased his speed, and although his already starving stomach gave him much protest, he continued to sprint at speeds approaching the maximum limit of a human being. He cleared the road before him, and at the next intersection, the cry become louder, more demanding, and seriously urgent.

He followed it to its source, and there, lying on the cold dusty road, was small girl. Her face was bruised, and even in the moonlight, Rex could tell that she was injured. He stopped, and he stooped down in front of the small girl. Her forehead had a shallow cut on it, and there some fresh blood leaking down her small pretty face. She looked to be about the age of five years, no more.

He tried to help the girl up, but she resisted, and she screamed, "Mujhē jānē dō! (_Let me go!_)" She kicked and screamed as loud as she could. "Mujhē jānē dō, tuma rākṣasa! (_Let me go, you monster!_)" she bellowed once again.

Rex silently and swiftly subdued the girl. He covered her mouth, and he gently whispered in her ear, "Maiṁ tumhēṁ dukhī nahīṁ jā rahā hūm̐. (_I am not going to hurt you._) Maiṁ yahām̐ hūm̐ tuma madada. (_I am here to help you._)" The girl's soft small brown eyes were filled with tears, as she slowly but surely nodded in response to the boy's soft, soothing tone. She believed him, but she did not know why.

He released the girl from his grip, and he helped her up. He noticed that she had a slight limp as well, but she did her best to hide it. For such a young child, she was full of pride and instinct—_good _instincts. She had parents; she _had _to have parents who taught her those instincts. Those instincts were not learned, they were taught. Rex knew that more than anyone else.

He looked down at the small girl before him. He was kneeling down in front of her, but she was still somewhat shorter than him. Her brown eyes, now dry, looked up into his emerald green ones. The boy cocked his head to the side, and he remembered something that he found very weird about the girl's words to him.

He comically chuckled, as he asked her, "Tuma hindī kyōṁ bōla rahē haiṁ? (_Why are speaking Hindi?_)"

The girl folded her arms, and she did not look amused by his mocking tone he took regarding her language skills. "Maiṁ kisī bhī arabī patā nahīṁ hai. (_I do not know any Arabic.) _Maiṁ yahām̐ sē nahīṁ hūm̐. (_I am not from here.)_" she replied to the boy's remark. He looked taken aback, but he nodded.

"Maiṁ māphī cāhatā hūm̐ (_I am sorry._) Maiṁ tumhēṁ apamāna matalaba nahīṁ thā. (_I did not mean to insult you._)" Rex replied to girl, as he smirked and lightly chuckled at the girl's assertiveness and abrasiveness. He, for some reason, found it endearing.

"English?" Rex asked the girl. She nodded. It was at this point that he was now very thankful that his father had insisted in him learning so many different languages. It was tedious and boring task, but he had completed the task in its entirety, and it was now paying off.

"Who did this to you?" he asked her.

She replied by pointing off in the distance. He followed her gaze to a distant road on the horizon. He turned back to her and nodded.

"Parents?" he inquired.

At this remark, the girl's eyes began to well up with fresh new tears, which clearly told a tale of immense trauma. He scooped the girl into a hug, and he tried his best to sooth her.

"Shhh. Shh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it." he addressed the girl, who was now done crying.

She dried her eyes. "Sep-ar-ated. Back _there_." the girl chocked out in Hindi-tainted English. Rex turned to see where she was pointing, and he nodded.

"C'mon, we'll find them." he said, smiling at the girl. She smiled back. He reached out his hand, and she took with slight hesitation. As they began to walk, however, Rex noticed her limp, and he quickly addressed it. The girl whimpered ever-so-slightly with every step she took, but soon the pain was gone, as she was in the older teen's arms.

She looked shocked at first, but she did not resist him, or try to pull away. She really didn't want to walk, and somehow, he knew that. She liked this boy. The two began to walk back down the streets, the girl directing them at every turn, until they made their way into a large clearing at the center of a set of crossroads. It was a bizarre—a market.

Littered across the market square were _many _injured and badly wounded individuals. Rex's fist clenched and unclenched constantly at the sight of this carnage. The girl scanned the crowd, and almost immediately, she pointed to two figures in the distance, and yelled out to them. "MOMMA! PAPPA!" the girl erupted, and Rex turned his view to the two people in question.

Across the courtyard were two people of the same apparent skin tone and ethnicity as the girl that he held in his arms. They both had dark, jet-black hair, with matching dark brown eyes. The two immediately noticed the girl, and they rushed over to her. Rex removed his hood from his head, and he looked at the young girl and she nodded. He willingly handed her over to her parents.

"Oh, Anissa!" the two shouted in unison, as they smothered her, and simultaneously inspected her. Upon seeing her apparent physical injuries, their tempers flared, and their attentions immediately turned to the boy in front of them. The father stepped forward and Rex got into an instinctive defensive stance, but before he could reach the teenager, his daughter spoke up.

"Papa!" she shouted, shaking her head, indicating that he was mistaken about his assumptions. He turned to her, and he reluctantly nodded. "Usanē mujhē bacāyā. (_He saved me._)" she told her father, clarifying things. He nodded once again. He turned back to the teenage boy in question.

"Śukriyā. (_Thank you._)" he addressed the boy, and properly thanked him. Rex nodded in response, and he loosened his tensed form.

"Āpakā svāgata hai. (_You are welcome._)" Rex responded, and the older Indian man was slightly taken aback by this slightly tanned Caucasian boy's proper use of his native Hindi language.

"Āpa hindī bōlatē haiṁ? (_You speak Hindi?_)" the older man asked the teen.

"Haan. (_Yes._) Lēkina maiṁ aṅgrējī mēṁ bahuta bēhatara bōlatē haiṁ. (_But I speak much better in English._) Kyā āpa aṅgrēzī bōlatē haiṁ? (_Do you speak English?_)" Rex replied to the man's inquiry. The astounded man simply nodded in response.

"What happened here?" Rex asked, gesturing to the countless injured and wounded individuals around him.

"Riots." the man responded simply. As he spoke, he held up a pendant that was attached to a chain around his neck. The pendant held the holy symbol of Hinduism: "_The Om_."

Rex now understood. The tensions between Hindus and Muslims, all across the globe were _terrible_, and they had only escalated with the end of the "_Hero Hunting_." The general population of Muslims were happy regarding the outcomes of the "_Hero Hunting_," as they thought of the now-eliminated heroes as nuisances, who had no right to judge individuals and carry-out punishments as they often did. Most Hindus believed the exact opposite. There were obviously exceptions and moderates on _both _sides, however. But most Hindus or Muslims fit this mold.

Rex now looked around the market square once again. This was something different, though. This wasn't simply a religious riot. It was something…_more_.

Rex scanned around the bizarre once again, and he noticed a torn flag at the center of the square—the flag of the PLO, the "_Palestine Liberation Organization_," a terrorist organization. They were more interested in killing innocents than liberating Palestine. It was a shame, really. Those who _truly _wanted to liberate Palestine now permanently had their good name destroyed.

Rex turned back to the family that he had just helped reunite. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, his stomach spoke for him. It growled so loud, that it may have scared a small child. It didn't scare Anissa, though.

She simply laughed at Rex's discomfort, and her mother gave her a scolding look that made the small girl suddenly become silent. At the rumbling of his stomach, Rex realized that he hadn't eaten for almost a week. He was in dire need of food, and Anissa's mother realized this very quickly.

"My dear, you _must _eat." she ordered him in her slight Hindi accent, leaving no room for debate. Rex raised his hand to protest, but her husband simply shook his head, indicating that it was no use. Rex dropped his hand, and he reluctantly nodded.

He followed the family, as they led him to a food stand on the far side of the square. They placed an order, and soon some wrapped Egyptian tammia appeared on the counter. The father exchanged money for the food, and he led the rest of the family, Rex included, to a table in a corner near the wall of the square that they were closest to.

They all sat down, and Rex promptly thanked the two adults. He unwrapped the food and began to eat. He wanted to cram all of it down his throat, but somehow, he maintained some level of decorum and table manners. Anissa looked at her savior with curiosity as he ate. After he was done, he caught her stare, and he returned it, smirking at her. She giggled. He then turned his attention to her parents.

"Thank you both, _very much_." he addressed them both.

"Oh, it is not a problem at all, dear." the girl's mother responded light-heartedly.

Rex smiled at her kindness. It reminded him of his own mother. "…So, what are you all doing here? …If you don't mind me asking." Rex inquired.

The two adults looked at one another, and then back at the teenager before them. "We left India to escape the riots, and the constant bloodshed. Muslims killing Hindus. Hindus killing Muslims. It got _very _numbing after a time. Unfortunately, we did not realize that moving _here_," the man gestured to the city around him, "would be just as bad. Sometimes, I wonder if the human race is even capable of compassion at _all_. That is why I believe we _need _to have the heroes: to _help_ us understand it." he finished.

Rex processed what the man had said, before he aptly responded. "The reason that the heroes were so good at keeping peace, at showing compassion, at being fair, was that they had _only ever _seen or experienced things of the _opposite _in nature. They were human once too. Some were aliens. But they were _all _mortal. There was nothing special about them, except that they saw perfection in an imperfect world, and they fought to preserve it. Unfortunately, the forces and beings that sought to _destroy _that perfection prevailed in the end. It would appear that, not only the human race, but _every race _out there, would rather be imperfect beings of violence and bloodshed, than try to fix themselves." the teenager finished his rant.

The man smiled at the teenager before him. "..._Ah_… …But, they did _not _prevail."

Rex raised an eyebrow. "…I do not understand…"

"The forces that sought to destroy that perfect world did _not _prevail. Just the opposite, in fact." the man finished, smiling at the boy.

Rex was now truly curious. "How so…?" he inquired.

"When a being comes into this world, he or she is given a purpose, a reason, a drive. However, it takes someone _else_ pointing-out that purpose, for the individual to realize that he or she not only has a purpose—an ultimate goal—but someone who believes that they can accomplish it. The world gives you life. You give it back. That is the way it works. We are _still _working in that same way. They haven't changed a thing. Evil has not won. Not yet." the man finished.

Rex was now fully into the conversation. "Perhaps, and that is a very interesting way of looking at things, but…" Rex trailed off.

Now it was the man who was intrigued. "…_But_, what...?..." he urged the boy on.

"…_But_… …The fact that they have _not _changed anything is a testament to the fact that evil _has _won. The way that things were, was _terrible_. People killed people. People plotted against their own brothers, against their own sisters, against their own communities, nations, and planets. People practically _ate _each other. You were right: things have _not _changed. They have stayed the same. …And that is the sad part." Rex explained himself.

The man chuckled. He liked this young man. "Very good. But, you say things like you are one who wants to change the way things are, no?" he asked the young boy in front of him.

Rex was now taken off guard. "...Perhaps… …But, what does that have to do wit—" he was cut off by the rest of the man's explanation.

"…If you want to change things, then you _will _change things. As long as driven, enlightened, people like yourself want to change things, then things will change." the man said sincerely. Rex did not speak. The man continued.

"You are a young man who has suffered greatly, but who has also _endured _greatly. I _know _this, because _I _was a man _just like yourself_. You will fight to change this world, and you will change it, or you will _die _trying. That is the kind of person that you are. You are tired of the way things are. You have had a very difficult time finding worth in yourself, or finding worth in anything worth fighting for, worth saving. And, it has taken you some time, but you have may have finally found something that is worth fighting for. You found something that is so_ valuable_, that you _know _that it _deserves _a world that is just as valuable as itself—a world just as pure. Perhaps this value is _not _something that you see in yourself, but nonetheless, you have seen it in something. I can tell." the man finished, and he had a look that said one thing: '_checkmate_.' He had just "_won_" the discussion, and Rex _knew _it.

The boy just sat there, slightly stunned, as he took in all of what the man had just said, and he came to a conclusion: he was _right_. He was completely and utterly _right_. Rex smiled at the man, and he smiled back. For the first time in many years, Rex felt like someone actually saw something other than worthless pile of flesh in him. He had only one other person who had seen that kind of value in him: his father. His father had sacrificed himself for Rex, and the boy believed that he deserved _none _of the selflessness that _either _of his parents had shown him. He didn't believe that he was worth it, and the man in front of him was right in that regard. He still believed that fact, but now, he saw three people in front of him who _were _worth it, who were worth fighting for, and Rex smiled at that.

"…And, there is one other thing that I can see in you." the man trailed off.

Rex looked up at him. "…_Yes_…?..."

"…You will _not _fail. You _will _change this world." the man finished, smiling and sure of himself.

Rex smiled at the man. "…Thank you, um…" Rex trailed off, embarrassed that he did not know the man's name.

"…Mr. Arular. Mr. Anil Arular." he stated, smiling at the boy.

"…And, _Mrs._ Sonia Arular." his wife finished for him, nudging him in the ribs playfully.

Rex smiled at their display of affection. "Well, _thank you_, for_ everything_, Mr. and Mrs., Arular." Rex replied, smiling at the two.

The couple was about to respond, when an earth-shattering explosion rocked the ground below them. Rex quickly got up and he surveyed his general surroundings. The loud boom had knocked many of the individuals in the square off of their feet; however, Rex had managed to keep his balance. He caught sight of the billowing cloud of smoke that was rising higher and higher into the sky. Rex turned his attention back to the family before him, and he addressed their small girl.

"Hey, Anissa, isn't that the direction that you said those mean men ran off to?" he questioned, and she simply nodded in a sad and sullen manner. Rex turned his attention back to the smoke cloud. His dark jade eyes burned with intensity and determination. He started walking in the direction of the smoke, until he was called back.

"Where are you going?" Mrs. Arular asked him.

He turned around and addressed her in the most heartfelt tone he could muster—which for Rex Mathis was a _very difficult_ task. "I'm going to take care of something."

He could tell that she wanted to rebuke his comment, but a sharp look from her husband made her remain silent. Mr. Arular knew what Rex was going to do, and he knew that there was no use in trying to stop him.

"…Well, it was very nice meeting and talking with you mister…" Anil trailed off, and Rex filled in the rest.

"…Mr. Mathis. Mr. Remy Oliver Mathis." Rex responded, smiling. The two adults smiled and nodded in return.

"…That's a funny name…" Anissa spoke up, chuckling slightly.

"I know." he chuckled in response.

He turned to leave, and as he did so, Anissa's voice called out to him. "…Be safe…?..." she stated, but she made it seem like more of a question. Rex looked directly at her and he smiled and nodded. Then he was gone, heading towards the direction of the smoke. He pulled his hood over his head as he did so, constantly gaining speed, and _always _staying in the shadows.

* * *

><p>Control looked at the billowing smoke cloud before her. She <em>knew <em>who or what had caused it. Terrorists. She sighed. Her deep pink irises scanned the small settlement before her, and she made a conscious decision. She turned to her brother, and her noticeably pink hair—which was currently up in a single braid—whipped around as she did so.

"K, we're going down there." she said to him, gesturing to the small settlement before them—the settlement that held _innocent _civilians, and now apparently, terrorists as well. As she said this, she tossed her brother a blue bandana, which he proceeded to tie around his mouth and nose, tying it off in the back of his head.

Control did the same with a red bandana she had in her back pocket. It effectively hid the brunt if their facial features, allowing for minimal recognition by any of their enemies. However, it kept their eyes completely unprotected, which is just the way they liked it. They preferred to look their enemies in the eyes when the beat them.

Her brother's light blue eyes looked back at her with comical disdain. "Let me guess, I'm the decoy. …Again." he stated, already knowing the answer. She nodded, and he sighed as he rose from his knelt position, to meet her at eye level, but he couldn't see her eyes. She wasn't looking at him. She was still scanning the settlement before them and assessing the situation.

The two twins were on a cliff overlooking a small desert on the outskirts of Cairo, Egypt. They were supposed to wait here—silently—while they awaited John's return, but of course, Chaos and Control weren't the kind of people to let helpless civilians become the playthings of a group of bloodthirsty extremists.

Chaos looked at his sister, who was still scanning the settlement for _anything _that she could use to her advantage. She was _constantly _looking for advantages, weaknesses in her enemies, and flaws in a design. She was _always _planning. Chaos was just the opposite. He just _did _things. He didn't fancy plans, per se. He was, for lack of a better word, _chaotic_. Control _always _had to be in _control_ of things. These were the obvious reasons that they used the aliases that they used: "_Chaos_" and "_Control_."

Chaos briefly scanned over the settlement in the small desert below the two twins. The chilly night air picked up, and it ruffled his light brown hair slightly, making the natural blonde highlights that he had look like small streaks of lightning. Chaos noticed how his blonde steaks resembled lightning in his reflection in a nearby spring below him, and he smirked. '_How appropriate_,' he thought to himself, knowing full-well that in mere moments, "_lightning_," was exactly what he intended to become.

Chaos smirked at his sister, and even though she couldn't see him and his mouth was covered by his bandana, she _knew_ he was doing it—she _knew _he was smirking.

"_What_?" she asked him, slightly annoyed.

"Got your plan all figured out, yet?" he comically inquired, in the most cynical tone that he could muster.

"Yes." was all she responded with.

He raised an eyebrow and responded, now truly curious. He did not like _thinking _of plans, but he _never _minded using one of his sister's ideas. They always seemed to work. "…And that would be…?" he asked again.

"Kill them all, and don't _get _killed." was her level-headed response.

He deadpanned. "…And _you're _the genius in the family?" he questioned her "plan."

"No. Mom and Iris were the geniuses. I'm just the '_not-so-stupid_' one in the family." she replied, finally facing her brother, and smirking as she did so. He rolled his eyes at her obvious quip directed at his intelligence. Their "masks" hid their facial features well from their enemies, but they knew each other well enough to tell what the other's face looked like at any given moment, even if they were wearing masks.

"Seriously, what's the plan?" he asked, now wanting a real answer.

This time, she gave a real answer. "You draw their fire from the northern-most entrance of the settlement. Once you have their attention, make sure and _keep _it. Redirect their fire at the secondary guards at the east entrance, making them confused and disoriented, and I'll take out the south and west ones, with my '_Flash Freeze_." she concluded, and her brother nodded in response.

'_That's more like it_,' he thought to himself.

"…Okay, so—" Control started talking again, but she was cut off as her brother left her side, and in his place was left a noticeable blue streak, as he ran away from their current location at superhuman speeds.

Control rolled her eyes. She had an idea of where he was going, but with Chaos, one was never sure. Even after seventeen years of living with him, he truly was unpredictable. She was a lot like her brother in many ways, but they were very different as well. Their personalities were very different, and that was a given, but even their metahuman abilities were vastly different, yet somehow, exactly the same.

Thanks to their father, they both had a connection to the ever-present "_Speed-Force_." The "_Speed-Force_" was the force that controlled _all _motion in the known universe, and as such, gave speedsters their metahuman abilities, after they had been able to vibrate fast enough to tap into it. Furthermore, both of the twins had a certain kind of telekinesis, thanks to their mother. But the ways their separate abilities worked were astonishingly similar in very different ways.

Control could only slow down time around her, while Chaos could only speed up his own being or metabolism. The effect it had on the two was that, while they both _looked _like they were traveling at the _same _speed at maximum speed—approximately the speed of light, give or take—Control was really traveling at _normal _speed, while her brother was traveling as fast as light. She only slowed everything down around her, her brother included, so that she _looked _like she going that fast, and in all actuality, even though she _really was_, she didn't feel any faster.

The only difference between their speeds were that, while Chaos and Control could _technically _move at the same speed, _only _Chaos could breeze through it quickly, while control had to endure the _entire normal _length of a trip, albeit arriving at the same time as her brother. For instance, in a trip around the world, both a Chaos and Control would have left and arrived at the _exact same _time—less than a second later—but _only _Control would complain about having to walk around the _entire _planet at _normal_ human speeds, while Chaos would have no such recollection.

The downside of Chaos's "quick fix" type of movement, though, was that it limited his sight, hearing, and other sensory perceptions that Control would have _easily _picked up on, while on the same trip. Not only was their use of the "_Speed-Force_" different from each other, but their use of telekinesis was vastly different as well.

Control could _only _fix things—_only repair_ them. Her telekinesis allowed her to locate the strong and weak points in a structure or object and _reinforce _them, or make it _stronger_, thus fixing or reinforcing the entire object or structure. While this was true for Control, the opposite was true for her brother. Chaos could _only _break things. His personal telekinesis allowed him to _only _locate to strong and weak points in a structure or object, and _break _or _destroy _them, thus destroying the object.

Alone or separated, they were very skilled and trained, but together and united, they were best of friends, the greatest of rivals, a true force to be reckoned with.

Chaos had been gone for a half of a second. Control waited for another half-second, and then she began to get restless.

Her brother finally popped back into view. He was holding two cans of spray paint. One was red paint, and the other was white paint. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he smirked at her. He proceeded to undo his blue button-up shirt, revealing a well-defined physique with obvious muscles, which had clearly taken some good effort to get to that point.

Control raised her eyebrow even higher. Chaos proceeded to spray paint his chest and torso with the two cans of paint, and within a second he was done. After the toxic cloud of red-and-white paint dust cleared, Control took a look at her brother, and she rolled her eyes once again. He had painted a large red-and-white "bulls-eye target" on his chest.

"If I'm gonna be the decoy, then they're gonna need something to shoot at, right?" he questioned with a comical smirk crossing his face.

"You are just like dad." she sated with a sarcastic smile.

"Why, thank you." he responded, giving her a mock salute as he did so.

"What took you so long, anyways?" she asked him.

"Well, they didn't have any of the colors that I was looking for in _any _store in Cairo, so I had to stop off in France, and well, you know how the French are…" he trailed off, making an obscene gesture as he did so.

She arched her eyebrow once again. "K, you _did _pay for those, right?" she questioned him.

"…Define pay…" was all he could muster in response.

"_CHAOS!_" she boomed at her brother.

"Alright, alright! Chill! It's probably only like a measly five dollars anyways, so—" Chaos was cut off by his sister.

"…Then go and _pay _the '_measly_' five dollars!" she retorted.

"Can't." he stated matter-of-factly.

"What? Why not?" she asked him quizzically.

"I'm broke." he smiled sheepishly at his sister.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You spent all your money on that tramp in Belgium, didn't you?" she asked, demanding an immediate answer.

"_HEY!_ Don't call her a '_tramp_!' It's not like she was a hooker or anything! I took her on a legit date!" he defended his actions.

She narrowed her eyes even further. "You didn't get any, did you?"

Chaos turned red in the face. "That is _NONE _of your business, nor is it _any _your concern!" he hastily replied back.

Control chuckled. "I'll take that as a 'no.'" she said in a sarcastic manner. Chaos shot her a dirty look.

"Haha, alright then, fine. Take this," she held out a French ten dollar bill, "go pay for the spray paint, and don't worry about paying me back. …And, next time, think long and hard about whom you spend your money on." she stated comically.

"Fine, '_mom_.'" he retorted, taking the money and zooming of into the night. Chaos returned not even a full second later.

"…_Better_…?" he asked his sister.

"_Much_." she smiled at him. He rolled his eyes, but smirked at the same time.

The two refocused their attentions on the settlement before them. They were about to speak to each other when an ear-splitting scream was emitted from the settlement—a cry for _help_. Both siblings turned to each other, and just as Control looked at her brother, she swore that she saw a pair of dark emerald eyes in the shadows, staring back at her, but when she glanced a second time, they were gone. She narrowed her eyes on the spot where she had seen the pair of jade eyes, and she focused on it for a second, before her brother snapped her out of her reverie.

"Hey, _CONTROL_! We have a problem down there!" he yelled at her. She turned to face him and she nodded. The two Schism Siblings descended the cliff and headed for the settlement, quickly and quietly, but all the while Control kept her eyes peeled for a certain set of emerald eyes.

* * *

><p>The girl awoke, and she slowly opened her eyes. Her dark brown eyes scanned the room before her. She was in the same hospital room that the blonde had brought her to. At the sound of a distinct '<em>beep<em>,' the small preteen girl tilted her head upwards just the slightest to see where the beeping had originated. The origin of the sound was the heart monitor that she was attached to. She traced the line of the I.V. bag that was on the pole next to the heart monitor, and she found that the line ended inside her wrist. She cringed slightly. She _hated _needles.

She sighed deeply, and suddenly remembered something. '_The blonde_,' she thought to herself. She hadn't kept her promise. She didn't come back. The girl wanted to cry, but she did not. She was _far _too used to things not going her way, or to people breaking their promises to let this bother her. But that was lie. It _did _bother her. Just as the girl was about to silently shed tears, she heard a sound that made her stop.

It had originated from the other side of the bed she was currently lying on. The girl took a deep breath, and she steadied herself. She mustered _all _of the remaining energy that she could—which was barely any at all—and she slowly, surely, painfully, turned her body around to face the other side of the room. As she turned, she discovered that her deep dark-brown-red hair was damp with sweat—probably from the nightmare that she had last night. What she saw next took her breath away.

The girl looked on in awe, as she watched the blonde—whose legs were hooked onto the bed's curtain-railing by the creases of her knees—perform a great number of _vertical sit-ups_, and every time the blonde raised her abdomen to meet her knees, she increased her efficiency, speed, rate of retraction, and general intensity of the exercise. She continued with this process, until she reached a count of _435_ sit-ups. The girl assumed that she had done much more than that, before she had woken up. The blonde then quickly dismounted the curtain-railing, and she made not a single sound as she did so.

Next, the blonde dropped into a push-up position, and she began to do a great number of the exercises, clapping once, twice, and even three times each time, before she raised herself back up to her starting position. The small girl looked on in awe, and she counted _500_ push-ups.

What the blonde-haired woman did next was truly a shock to the preteen girl in her bed. The blonde drew ten short, sharp, pointed, curved knives, and she extended them all, so that their length and points increases as well. They were throwing knives.

The woman then proceeded to fling the ten knives at the corner of the wall that was directly opposite her. She threw the knives at such an angle, that _all _of the blades returned to the blonde, bladed edge first, and the blades' new target was now clearly the blonde woman's face.

The girl in her bed wanted to yell to the woman, but she _knew _that it would do no good. The woman already knew about the dangers approaching her. In fact, for some unforeseeable reason, she had purposefully caused the danger that now threatened her life. So, knowing this information, the girl knew that yelling at the blonde would not help her. In all actuality, it might have done more harm than good, for if she yelled, she had a good chance of distracting her, and that wasn't a good thing—especially while professional throwing knives were hurtling right at her face. So, instead, the girl just laid there, still shell-shocked at the apparently insane actions of the older woman.

Rose did not look at the girl once, but she _knew _that she was watching her, and she smirked as the blades came towards her face at speeds faster than any professional knife thrower could have possibly fathomed. Rose moved her body in an expert manner, in and out of the blades' paths, and she quickly, effectively, and efficiently, dodged all of the incoming knives.

There was now a new problem, though. Rose had successfully and efficiently evaded the blades, but they were now headed directly at the small girl. The girl looked at the approaching doom heading straight for her with a wide-eyed expression. Before _any _of the knives left Rose's general vicinity, though, she quickly snatched each and every one of them out of the air. She quickly holstered her throwing knives, and she turned her attention the small girl who simply looked like she was about to pass out.

In that instance, Rose realized what she may have done. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't going to let _any _of them hurt you. I was only—" Rose started, but she was cut off, by the excited exclamation of the small girl before her.

"_That. Was. AWESOME!_" she exclaimed at the top of her lungs, and Rose rushed to her side, quickly placing a firm yet gentle hand over the girl's mouth.

"Shhh." she addressed the girl. She nodded silently in response. Rose released the hand that she had over the girl's mouth.

"…_How_… …_Why_… …_When_…" the girl asked and trailed off all in the same instance.

Rose smirked at the girl. "Years of practice." she replied.

"…_Really_…?... …Could you teach _me_ how to do that…?" the girl asked, seeming hopeful.

Rose looked intently at the girl. "I know that it looks '_cool_,' but, _trust me_, it is skill that people should _only _have to learn, when they have the type of life that _I_ have." Rose replied very somberly.

The girl looked down. "I bet you have _cool_ life. I bet you have people who care about you. I'd want that. Maybe if you taug—" the girl started, but she was cut off, when Rose sat down on the girl's bed, trapping her in a gentle embrace—one that neither of them fought.

"No. I'm sorry, but no. That is a skill that I _had _to learn, because, if I didn't then I wouldn't have been able to do things I did. The thing is, though, I did _not _want to do the things I did. I didn't have a _choice _to learn that skill, like you do now. I was _forced_ to learn it. I didn't even know what I wanted, until I was nearly an adult. I only did what I was told, and that wasn't always the best of things. Trust me, it's not a useful skill." she said, as she continued to hug the girl. The two eventually pulled apart. The girl looked up at her.

"What did you do that was so _bad_?" she asked innocently.

"Look, I wasn't exactly… …a… …'_good_,' or for that matter, a '_decent_' person. I was the kind of person that made the good guys necessary. I _am _that type of person. You shouldn't look up to me. I'm not worth it." she stated very seriously.

The girl's soft brown eyes looked into the blonde's ice cold blue eyes. "…Did you ever… …You know, _kill_ anyone?" she asked the blonde. Rose looked very somberly at the girl, and she took that as her answer.

"I don't believe that you are a bad person, though. I don't believe that you were _ever _a bad person." the girl said.

Rose raised an eyebrow and looked at the girl intently. "…_Oh_… …And, why is that?" she questioned the small child.

"Because you made mistakes. But, you admitted to those mistakes. That doesn't make you bad. It makes you _human_." she smiled up at the blonde.

Rose looked wide-eyed. "How old are you?" she asked her.

"…Um… …I'm twelve. I'm _almost_ thirteen. …_Why_?" replied the girl.

"…You're _twelve_, and you're over here, spouting '_Western Philosophy_?'" Rose asked the girl comically.

The girl looked at her with a funny and unreadable expression. She obviously had not understood. "Never-mind." Rose cleared it up.

The girl nodded. "…So, why were you so interested in learning knife throwing, anyways?" Rose asked the brunette.

"…So I could stop being so weak." she responded, sounding down-trodden.

Rose looked her in the eye. "You. Are. Not. Weak."

"Yes, I am. I want to be someone like _you_. Someone who actually stands up for themselves. Someone who is _worth _standing up for. Someone wh—" the girl began her rant, but Rose cut her off.

She grabbed the girl's chin, and she lifted it to her eye level. "Who told you that you weren't worth standing-up for?" she asked the girl seriously.

"…The guys who attacked me…" the girl answered uneasily, and she cringed lightly as she did so.

"You _are _worth standing-up for. You _are _worth saving. That's why I _saved _you." she answered the girl. The girl looked up at the blonde, and she smiled half-heartedly.

"…Hey, um… …What did you do to those guys, anyways?" she questioned, and Rose looked away.

"I did what bad people do best." Rose answered abruptly.

The girl put her hand over the blonde's hand, and Rose turned back to face her. "…But, if you do _bad things_, to _bad people_, then doesn't that make it a _good thing_?" she asked the blonde, and Rose smirked.

"If only it was that easy. When the good guys do what the bad guys do, then what is the difference is there between them? There is _none_. That's why I'm bad, kid." she said, smiling cynically at her. She chuckled.

"You can call me Collin." she replied.

Rose smiled. "That's a pretty name."

"No, it's not." she refuted.

"Yes, it _is_. It's certainly better than _Rose_." she responded.

Collin looked at her with a sweet and sincere expression. "_You're _name is '_Rose_?'" she asked.

Rose nodded.

"Wow. That's really pretty."

Rose chuckled. "Yeah, that's the problem. Do you know how many teeth I have to knock out of a guy, before he realizes that I can do more than look good?" she posed her rhetorical question, and Collin broke into a fit of near-uncontrollable laughter.

She stopped laughing after a while. "I still don't think that you're bad." she stated.

"Trust me, kid. I'm _bad_." she retorted.

Collin looked at her seriously. "Well, if you're _so _bad, then why did you save _me_?" she questioned.

Rose looked at her seriously. "I saved you because you were worth it." she smiled down at her.

Collin narrowed her eyes. "You said that already. What I want to know is, _why_ did you think that I was _worth_ it?" she inquired, getting deeper into the blonde's psyche.

Rose looked at her, and she sighed deeply. "I thought that you were _worth it_, because you did _not _deserve that. But, it still happened to you. You are the kind of person who would hold _no _animosity towards those who hurt you. I _knew _this, because I was _like you_. I _was _like you, but I no longer am. I wanted to save that part of you that I saw as the only decent part of myself. You are the kind of person, who when pushed to forgive and forget, or avenge, would do the sooner. You are a peaceful person. You are a person who wants nothing more than to stop pain—_all _of the pain. You want to stop it, because you _know _how bad it feels to feel pain. All you want is to make the world _better_, and if left alone, that is _exactly _what you will do. Who knows, you may grow-up to cure cancer or found the first alien ambassador center, or something. _You could _actually do those things, because that _is _who you are. That is who you would become, _if _you were left alone. However, those _monsters_ did _not_ leave you alone, and they _never would_, unless I _stopped _them. So, I _did_. I _stopped _them. You are more valuable to this world then _they _were, and if they were left alive, then they would have _ended _you, or people _like you_. The world had to make a choice—who was better, who was _worth _saving. It made that choice, _through _me. I found them, and I ended them, so that _you _could grow-up, and be free of the fear that inhibits this wayward world from being a '_good_' place. I saved you because you can make this world better, and that is _exactly _what this place _needs _right now." Rose finished, looking at Collin with the most endearing expression that she could muster.

"…_Wow._ Do you really mean those things?" she asked in awe. Rose nodded her head at her solemnly, and Collin hugged the girl's waist tightly—_very _tightly. Rose was a little shocked by the action, but she eventually gave-in and returned the embrace.

"You're still a good guy, just sayin'." Collin snuck in, as she was hugging Rose. "You saved me because it was _good_ thing to do. You do bad things to bad people. I don't know about you, but that sounds like a '_good guy_,' to me." Collin finished, as she pulled away from Rose, smirking, because she knew that she had just won the argument.

Rose rolled her eyes. "Oh, just shut up and eat." she said. Collin looked at her with an amused and confused expression. Rose took the McDonald's bag off of the nightstand near the bed, and she placed the bag in the girl's lap. Collin grinned hugely up at the blonde, as she began to open and devour the contents of the bag. Rose watched the way she ate, the way she acted, the way she sounded, and the way she…_looked_. Rose went wide-eyed for a second.

'_She couldn't be. …Could she…?..._' Rose thought to herself.

"…Hey, Collin?" she asked the girl, who currently had her mouth stuffed with mounds of a "_McSkillet Burrito_," and some pieces of a hash brown.

"…_Hmmm_…?..." Collin responded, after managing to swallow her large mouthful.

"…Um, where are, well, you know, your, um…" Rose trailed off, not sure as to how to continue.

"…My _parents_…?" Collin finished for her.

Rose nodded.

Collin shrugged. "I was adopted at birth, and I _really _liked my family. …But, then, this doctor who said he could help us, he, um, well, he did _really bad_ stuff to them, and I…" Collin trailed off, her voice getting weaker and weaker with every passing word, as she began to shed new tears. Rose engulfed the girl in another crushing embrace.

"…Oh, Collin, that's okay. I'm sorry." she comforted the girl. Collin quickly dried her eyes, and she smiled up at Rose. Rose smiled back. After a few moments, a nurse entered the room, and she began to check on the girl, ask her some routine questions, and monitor her vitals. After she was done, Rose escorted the nurse out. Collin was a little skeptical about this sneaking around, but Rose assured her that she would be back soon, and thus Collin believed her.

Once outside in the hallway, Rose addressed the nurse. "Do you have _any _information on _anything _about her? Birthparents, birthday, last name?" Rose asked her frantically. Unfortunately, the nurse shook her head.

"Unfortunately, ma'am, it could take _some _time, to get the test results back." the nurse responded, referring to the blood and DNA tests that they had ordered done on the girl.

Rose nodded her head solemnly, but she had one final piece of input. "…_Well_… …While we're waiting, do you think that you could run a test on _one specific_ possible birthparent?" she asked the nurse, and she nodded.

"What's the name?" she inquired.

Rose looked the nurse dead in the eye. She spoke solemnly, "Jason Todd."

* * *

><p>"Dammit, Cain! I have gone over this with you time-and-time again! I am <em>not <em>putting that damn suit back on!" Dick erupted at the Commissioner of Gotham City Police. Commissioner Cassandra Cain—who apparently had taken up smoking since her promotion to commissioner, as she had cigarette in her mouth as she inhaled deeply—looked unfazed as she continued to talk with Dick.

"I know that you have your reasons, Dick, but, _godammit_! This city—_no_, this _world_—_needs _Batman! You _cannot _just sit your ass there, while that crazy clown runs around town, _unopposed_!" Cain erupted back. The slender dark-haired, dark-eyed, physically fit, and obviously oriental woman shot back. Dick ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, and he sighed very deeply.

This conversation, which had quickly turned into an escalating argument, was currently taking place on top of Gotham City Police Department's main precinct building, in downtown Gotham. There were being so loud and furious that, had it not been for the tall height of the building, everyone on street level would have been looking up at them by now.

"I _know_. But, I'm _not_—" Dick started, but he was interrupted by Cassandra's rebottle.

"_Yes_. _Yes_, Dick. You _are _Batman! Bruce left the cowl to _you_! To _you_, godammit! How can you arg—" she started, but Dick cut her off.

"..._Because_, Cass…" he trailed off.

"…_Because_, _WHAT_?" she pressed him further.

"…_Because _he _trusted _me with that responsibility, and I broke his rule—his _one _rule! The _moment_ that I did that, Cass, I _became _one of Gotham's criminals. I cannot stand to wear that suit after what I did. I would be the biggest hypocrite with the biggest ears." he answered.

Cain sighed, and puffed out a breath of smoke. "Dick, you _know _that he _deserved_ what he got. That clown had it coming for _years_. After what he did to Lana, I can't beg—" Cassandra started, but Dick interjected, rather angrily.

"It doesn't matter what he did! It doesn't matter what he didn't do! I had _no right _to judge him, determine his fate, or execute him—_especially_ because of personal vengeance! I _loved _Lana, but to honor her, and our love, I should have done what Bruce _wanted _me to do—_not _kill that maniac! Now, look what's it's done! Another, _better_, _smarter_, somehow _incredibly well-trained_, and new Joker has come to Gotham, and he is not only just as bad as the old, he is _worse_! I _caused _that! I _cannot _do this anymore, Cain. I'm _done_." he finished, exasperated.

She sighed, and with her sigh, came another puff of smoke. "I _know_. But, Dick, if you want retribution, then _now _is the time to get it. _Now _is the time to avenge _yourself_." she reasoned. "Lana was a good woman, Dick. You and I _both _knew that. She was strong and brave, and intelligent. She was one of the few people who went up against that maniac and died without a hint of fear on her face. But, this city needs someone who _cannot _die! It _needs _Batman!" she finished.

Dick, surprisingly, nodded. "You're right, Cain. It _does _need Batman. But it does _not _need _me_. Call Terry." he said as he began to walk off the roof.

"He won't pick up either. Ever since Damian left, it's like you're _all dead_." she said sadly, shaking her head as she did so. Dick stopped in his tracks.

"Then revive '_Black Bat_,' if you're _so _concerned." Dick retorted, cynically.

She smirked. "Can't. '_Black Bat_,' or the _new_ '_Black Bat_,' rather, is in Hong Kong, seeing to her own business." she responded.

Dick turned around and raised an eyebrow at her. He walked back to where she was standing. "You let Steph take the suit to Hong Kong?" he asked, in utter disbelief.

Cain shook her head. "_Nope_. I _sent _her there." she said, smirking. Dick shook his head.

"I thought it'd be good for her. She is _still _really hung-up on Tim's demise and that guilt will eat her alive, if she doesn't keep it in check. So, I sent someone to keep an eye on her." Cain said, smirking once again.

Dick was now truly curious. "Who'd you send?" he asked, unsure if he truly wanted to know.

"Jon." was all she responded with.

Dick went wide-eyed. "You sent Jon _Kent_ with her? Oh, you're _evil_." he said chuckling. Dick hadn't chuckled in a _very long _time.

"Yes. Yes, I did. They _both need _to get over themselves. After the '_Hero Hunting_,' Jon wasn't the same. He opted to _die_, instead of using Kryptonite to stay alive. Of course Lois and Sam argued him out of it, but it seems that he would have been _more _useful dead. At least then, he would have served as inspiration or something of the sort. _Now_, he just mopes around and whines about being crippled and being '_half the man his father was_,' and it was _really _driving the rest the family crazy. So, since Steph seemed to be the _only _person to truly be able to get through to him, I sent them to Hong Kong, _together_. …And, since Lois passed, and Jon became Sam's legal guardian, she just _had _to go with him…" Cain trailed off, smirking even wider, blowing another puff of gray smoke out of her mouth.

Dick's mouth nearly fell open. "You sent Samantha Lane _and _Stephanie Brown to Hong Kong? Was your intent to _destroy _the city?" he asked quizzically, but also, somewhat comically.

She shrugged. "Besides, the '_kryptonite claws_' that I built-into the new suit, although primarily meant for alien menaces, would be _very beneficial _to Jon's special '_treatment_.' So, it only made sense." she explained.

"You know that trying to get her to date the Kryptonian won't fill the void that Tim left, right?" he asked her.

She looked at him seriously. "She _loved _Tim, and _everybody _knew that. I respected that, and I loved Tim like a brother—we _all _did. But, _now_, after his death, she is _closing _herself off from _all _forms of emotion. She is worse than an android. She loves Jon, too. She just won't admit it. So I'm _forcing _her to realize it." Cain stated solemnly.

"…And, what about _you_?" Dick asked curiously.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "What _about _me?" she questioned.

"I would only assume that Tim's death would have affected Steph, as much as Jason's would have affected _you_." he elaborated.

"Let me stop you right there. Jason Todd was a lawless, loose-cannon, lunatic, and he was my _rival_. Do _not_ think _anything _otherwise. He was _nothing _more than my enemy, my rival, an obstacle, and a constant thorn in my side." she argued adamantly.

"You know, sometimes rivals make the best allies." Dick responded, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"I was adopted by Barbara Gordon. She and Bruce taught me right from wrong, and Bruce tried the same thing with Jason. Apparently, though, he _failed_. Jason was a _hero_, but he _became _a criminal. He had _every right _to feel the way that he did towards the Joker. That crazy clown took my mother's legs from her. He beat Jason to death. He tortured Tim to the point of near-insanity, and near-death. The fact remains, though, that, as you said, '_When we act like the villains we fight, we become them, and as such, we kill the hero within ourselves_.'" she said, looking Dick right in the eye.

"In the end, Jason died to protect and preserve this world. He died to save his _brother_. Jason was a hero, no matter what you say, or how you phrase it, and I _know _that _you_ know that. You were _always _the _first _to sympathize with him, the first to defend his actions, and when he went after the Joker for revenge, you were right on his tail, seeking that _same exact _revenge that he sought. You two were the vastly different, yet _exactly _the same. I can see that you miss him more than you let on, that is, if you let on at _all_. He did bad things—_murderous _things—yes. _But_, he did those things to _bad_, _murderous _people. You and him were the _only _two, to _ever _kill anyone in costume, and it was _always _justified. Bruce may not have agreed with it, but I saw the good in it. Granted, I didn't always agree with it either, but that doesn't change the fact that he was good, the fact that _you _were good. You two killed, to stop _others _from feeling pain, to stop others from _killing_. You did bad things, yes, but you did them in _good _ways. It's okay to admit when you miss someone, Cass. I miss him. I miss Tim. I miss Bruce, my _father_. I miss my father, and I miss my brothers." Dick ended his rant.

She looked him straight in the eyes. "Fine. I miss him." she confessed. Dick smiled at her nodded.

"I wonder how Black Bat is holding up in Hong Kong?" he asked no one in particular.

"I'm sure that she is doing just fine." the Commissioner responded, puffing out more smoke.

"Well, it _is _somewhat comforting to know that there are at least _some _heroes left." he replied, surprisingly somewhat upbeat.

"It doesn't change the fact that the world still needs Batman—_very _badly." she stated, as Dick had now resumed his previous action of walking away.

"…And it doesn't change the fact that I am _not _putting that suit back on." he responded over his shoulder.

Cain smirked. "Give my regards to Laura." she said, just as he was disappearing through the door of the roof.

"You do know that she probably won't remember you, right?" Dick questioned.

"Probably. You know, Dick, you've got a strong girl there." she responded smiling.

He smiled in return. "I know." was all he said.

"I mean it. I see the way that she looks at the world. It's the same look that her mother had. It's the same look that _you _had. She is _very _skilled, you know. She could do great things, if you'd allow her to—" Cain was cut off by Dick's adamant response.

"No." he said hastily, as he turned around to face her once again.

"…_But_—" Cain was cut off once again.

"…She can _never _be great at being in a mask. I won't let her. What she _can _be is be great at being a _normal _human teenager. _That _is what she'll do. I _refuse _to put the burden of this godforsaken world on _her _shoulders." he shot at the Commissioner.

"She could handle it, though. She's strong, and you _know _that. You know, if she actually knew who her father actually _was_, she might think differently. If she knew what you had done—knew that you were _Batman_—she might change her mind." Cain responded.

"That's why she does _not _know." he replied. He turned around and began to walk off of the roof for the final time.

Commissioner Cain sighed, taking a drag of her cigarette as she did so. "Take care, Dick." she called after him.

"Will do, Commissioner." Dick responded, without so much as turning around.

Cain looked out over the city, thinking that it needed more than Batman. It needed _retribution_.

**A/N: Well, hot DAMN! I still have so MUCH to introduce, and SO MUCH to INTER-TWINE! Hmmm… Can you see the next generation of heroes lining up nicely? Haha, who got the fact that the ENEMY of Connor Hawke (Rex Mathis's FATHER—A.K.A "_The Green Arrow_") took his name from "_Robin Hood_?" Oh, C'MON, I KNOW That SOME of you got it—Gisborne (Robin Hood's GREATEST FOE)? What about the NEW, OLD, AND, IMMENSELY, POWERFUL foes that our heroes will have to face? I'm JUST GETTING WARMED-UP! PLEASE R&R! …And, to answer those burning questions in the back of your skull, STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT UPDATE!**


	5. Light in the Darkness

**_Disclaimer:_**** I do not own DC Comics, or anything associated with said franchise.**

**_Accolades/Appreciation:_**** Thanks for ANY/ALL of the reviews! I really appreciate them, and I take them all into account.**

**_Author's Amendment:_**** And yes, I am aware of the "length issue," of the chapters. It HAS to be that long (AT LEAST For The FIRST FEW Chapters), until I Have introduced all of my major characters, and "set-the-scene." ...Then, after I have done that, they'll get progressively shorter, until their length is uniformed, and they'll be WAAAY shorter than original ones, and MUCH MORE readable. ...Also, I am aware of the very dark nature of the first few chapters. ...BUT, please be aware that the story has NOT YET EVEN BEGUN! BELIEVE ME, when the action starts, the heroes will have some REAL PERSONALITIES, nice one-liners, awesome quotes, and, some REALLY GOOD senses of humor (Just Look At Chaos). I am making it that dark on purpose. As it is said: "The dark always looks darker right after a great light." That is VERY TRUE. ...HOWEVER, the inverse is also true: "The light always looks brighter, after a great darkness!" I am making it so very dark, so that, when the heroes (BOTH Cannon, AND, OC) enter into the mix, the hope that they give the world, and the readers, will be that much greater! Don't worry, it'll only get MORE ACTION-Y, MORE COMICAL, and BRIGHTER, as it goes on! …Anyways, THANKS for reading, reviewing, favoriting, subscribing, etc… I REALLY appreciate it! READ ON, READERS!**

**V. Light in the Darkness**

"…_Azarath_. …_Metrion_. …_Zinthos_…" the boy whispered silently. He was silently and stealthily perched atop the central roof of "_Wayne Enterprises_," and he was focusing—_hard_. He was mediating. It was nighttime in Gotham, and it was his favorite time of the day. Of course, he didn't have "_favorites_," per se. He _couldn't _have "_favorites_," because he didn't truly like _anything_.

He only had things that he detested less than everything else. He wasn't the happiest of teenagers, but then again, being one-fourth demon did that to people. He was sitting—or levitating, rather—a few feet above the roof's floor, his eyes closed, and his legs crossed. His dark blue cloak was draped over his body in a way that perfectly concealed his body—which upon closer inspection, seemed to be very physically fit, with a skin tone slightly darker and greyer than normally acceptable for a human—and his hood was lowered and not currently in its usual place over his head. He was doing his best to focus, and he was succeeding as best he could, until a loud sound forced his tightly closed eyes to whip open.

He looked around his general vicinity, and he scanned his surroundings, looking for the source of his disturbance. He huffed in annoyance, and he closed his eyes once again. He regained his focus, and he once again began to meditate.

"…_Azarath_. …_Metrion_. …_Zinthos_…" he repeated his mantra. His dark blue hair wavered slightly in the weak wind, but he did not notice, and he kept his dark eyes shut. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, keeping his breathing, heart rate, levitation height, and all other miniscule movements in check, proportion, and balance with one another.

His focus deepened, only to be completely shattered once again. "…_Azarath_. …_Metrion_—" he began to chant, but he was cut off by the loud echo of a jewelry store alarm before he could complete his chant. This time his eyes whipped open, and he knew that he would not be allowed to close them any time soon. He sighed in deep frustration.

He lowered himself onto the roof's floor, and he got to his feet—very quickly. He walked to the edge of the roof, and towards the deafening sound of the alarm. As he walked over to the edge, he walked very slowly, but he walked with determination, and purpose. His speed was well expressed, not in his motion, but in his attitude.

His experienced and well-trained eyes surveyed the streets below him. He scanned the streets for some time until finally he found what he was looking for. The three crooks were fleeing west along East Street. He couldn't help but smirk at the irony and stupidity of the robbers. They had ruined his night. Now, he was about to ruin theirs.

The teenager watched the three men flee, and he tracked their exact movements, their exact attitude, and the locations of any and all possible weapons. He did this all very quickly, and in a shadowy blink, he pulled his hood over his head, and he was gone, vanishing into the night without a trace.

Of the three masked men fleeing the scene of the crime, the one in front—the one appeared to be their leader—was the first to feel the wraith of "_Shade Shifter_." A shadow appeared in front of the man, and before he could react or even utter a single word, the shadow disappeared, seemingly diving into the asphalt below him.

"…_What _the _hell_…?..." the man asked himself anxiously as he came to slow and steady stop. His two comrades looked at him with a very confused expression as they stopped as well, apparently not having seen the apparition moments before.

The same shadow then emerged from the asphalt of the street, and he was now directly behind the man he had targeted earlier. The two other men now saw what had made their friend man so anxious moments before.

"J-J-Ji-_JIMMY!" _they both said in unison, addressing their apparent leader, whose name was name was evidently "_Jimmy_." They were far too late, though. The shadow was faster. A smirk appeared on Shade Shifter's face, although none of the men could see it behind his dark hood.

Shade was in the perfect position behind his target, so as to not give away his location, yet still attack his enemy at the right angle. Unfortunately though, due to the other men and their yells, Shade now had limited time to perform the actions that he needed to, as the man in front of him began to turn around.

The man began to turn, but he never got the chance to face his attacker, as Shade whispered, "…_Zinthos_…" thus finishing his preciously interrupted chant. The familiar shape of a raven grew from the boy, and it surrounded him and his target, and both disappeared.

Shade Shifter appeared mere moments later; however, the man that he had taken with him was now nowhere to be seen. The dark teen now approached the two remaining men, and they were clearly afraid—they were practically _drowning _in their own fear—and, as such, they reacted instinctively.

The two men drew their handguns, and they proceeded to open fire on the approaching shadow. Shade smirked once again. He swiped his hand at a perpendicular angle to the incoming bullets at just the right time—he did not have super speed, but he did have excellent reflexes—and he created an apparently solid shield of pure darkness out of thin air.

His shield made contact with the bullets, before they made contact with him, and the bullets were promptly deflected. The fear that the two remaining men felt escalated to new heights, and it showed. That was good. Shade fed of that fear, almost as much as a "_Yellow Lantern_" would have. He _enjoyed _seeing his enemies in fear. It was better than seeing them in _pain_. More often than not, it was _more painful _to his enemies, than actually being in pain.

The shadow continued to approach the two dumbstruck and fear-filled robbers before him.

"I do not believe _that_," Shade said, pointing to the small but noticeable bag of diamonds in one of the robber's non-dominant hands, "belongs to you. Perhaps you would care to return them." Shade suggested, being very clear that he was only going to give them one chance.

The two crooks turned to each and then back to the teenager. Their former and apparent fear now turned into amusement and anger. One of the criminals spoke.

"Beat it, kid! Whatever little magic tricks you've got, we've got some real '_party favors_,'" he gestured to his gun, "that'll make you run scared like the little kid you are!" he finished, chuckling slightly, and even though he chuckling, he was also clearly angry. Shade shook his head ever so slightly. At least he tried.

He now addressed the two doomed men before him. "You think that you know of _fear_? You know _nothing _of _fear_. Oh, but you _will_." he stated menacingly, and just as the two opened fire on the boy, his dark figure sunk into the pavement once again.

He reappeared behind the two men, and he turned his body very swiftly, delivering a silent and strong kick to the skull of the one closest to him, effectively dropping him to the ground, unconscious.

Shade left only the robber with the bag of diamonds standing. The only remaining crook was now experiencing a new level of fear, and he was sure that he wanted to be in his partner's position: unconscious on the ground. Shade turned his attention to his now stunned and stupefied foe.

"Are you _afraid_, yet?" he asked the petrified man. He nodded ever-so-slightly. "_Good_." Shade responded, and he proceeded to drop the last of the fleeing robbers.

Moments later, the Gotham City Police Department had arrived at the scene. Detective Sarah Storm—the biological sister of the late Lana Grayson, and sister-in-law of Dick Grayson—stood by the wall of the alley, examining the three unconscious masked men, and the bag of diamonds that were strung-up next to them. There was note that accompanied them. She retrieved the note and read:

"_Dear detective, please keep your trash off the streets, thank you ever so much. The night is already full of deadly creatures. It needs not be full of morons as well._

_I'll be watching,_

_The Shadow, Shade Shifter_."

She put the note down, and she smirked. The last line of the note would have given anyone else a sense of foreboding and uneasiness, but it gave her a little hope. Gotham had been graced by the presence of a hero, and that hadn't happened in a _very long _time.

Detective Storm's long brunette hair, which was currently tied-up in a ponytail, rustled slightly as the brisk night breeze blew through the street. Her deep dark eyes were met by the equally deep and dark eyes of her superior, Commissioner Cassandra Cain.

Cain kept a close eye on Sarah. Sarah Storm was well-trained, _very _well-trained, but nonetheless, Cain felt that Lana—being Dick's wife—was family, and as such, so was Sarah, and she refused let the woman out of her sight for any more time than was necessary. Cain was _not _going to lose any more family. Detective Storm often complained about Cain's protective presence, and she had a valid point—she could take care of herself, _very well_—but it did not matter. The commissioner's word was _final_.

Cain raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" she asked the detective.

Storm smirked and handed Cain the note. After her quick eyes scanned the small document, Cain proceeded to smile as well. She put a cigarette in her mouth, and she lit it up as her smirk widened.

"He may not be Batman, but sure knows how to leave a '_lovely_' note just like him." the commissioner commented, still smirking, as she exhaled some smoke.

* * *

><p>Shane walked through the lonely streets of Star City, tired and weary. He was tired—but not physically. Physically, he was well above the average or norm of the stamina, speed, and strength of any normal human—let alone a human teenager.<p>

But, mentally, he was drained. The past week had taken its toll on him. He had tried his very best to live in that house—in his sister's house. But, he could not. That marked the fourth, and _final_ of the many houses that he had tried to occupy, since his sister's demise.

She was the last link that he had to any emotion—let alone the ones that _weren't _destructive.

_Both _of his parents had been eliminated in the "_Hero Hunting_," and he _knew _that, had he been there to assist them during the attack, he would have been absolutely no help, yet he was always blaming himself for not being there. He wished that he had died when his parents had died. But he wasn't there, and the reason that he wasn't there ate away at him constantly.

He wasn't there, because he didn't want to be there, since he, at the time, didn't like his parents—he didn't respect them—and he would _always _regret his sentiments towards them in their final moments. Then, reading their will only made things worse. They respected him, and they loved him.

He was the illegitimate child of Jefferson Pierce and Sarah Simms. His father's ex-wife, Lynn Stewart, had been deceased for some time before his father had ever met Sarah.

Sarah Simms was a physical therapist, a rehabilitation expert, a teacher in a school of and for the disabled, and a general nice and kind-hearted person. The fact that Shane's father needed her help after the "_Black Lantern Corps_" had visited Earth was inevitable.

The "_Black Lantern Corps_" was an organization that consisted of deceased and decrepit revenants—or beings brought back from death itself—of old foes and enemies of the Justice League, Teen Titans and any other heroes in general. The "_organization_," "_The Black Lantern Corps_," was led by their leader, Nekron—the bringer and master of death itself.

The Black Lantern power rings worked like so many of the other power rings that fueled the other seven Lantern Corps, except the "emotion" of these rings was "_death_." Nekron's sole purpose and goal was to _eliminate _life, wherever, and whenever it may have existed, and thus, he began his "_extermination_" on the planet where the greatest amount of heroes—heroes that he considered "_threats_" to his mission—and that planet was none other than Earth.

Nekron had been successfully stopped, though. Hal Jordan had united the power of the seven rings and emotions of the original emotion spectrum into one, vastly powerful, and immensely limitless ring—the "_White Lantern Power Ring_."

This new Lantern Ring allowed Hal to temporarily form the "_White Lantern Corps_," whose members consisted of heroes who were already fighting the "_Black Lantern Corps_" on Earth, and together, they put an end to Nekron and his attack. However, the immense physical, mental, and emotional strain that using the White Lantern Ring had put on Hal was great, and he scarcely wanted to experience that ever again.

Jefferson Pierce, also known by his superhero alias "_Black Lightning_," had helped the other heroes during the "_Black Lantern Invasion_" of planet Earth. He had gained a good number of his commendations and honors that had adorned his symbol in the Justice League's Watch-Tower due to his heroic actions during these attacks.

He had done a marvelous job at defending innocents and repelling the attacks of Nekron during the conflict. Unfortunately, however, he was also _severely _injured during the assault.

After some reparative surgery and recuperation, a good amount of rehabilitation and physical therapy was needed. That is when Jefferson met Sarah Simms.

She was then operating and working out Metropolis—Jefferson's home city—and thus, the meeting of the two was inevitable. Upon first sight, Jefferson felt immediate guilt for his affection to the kind woman because, although his wife had passed peacefully years before, he felt that Lynn still held his heart. Feeling this guilt and regret, Jefferson closed himself off from the woman.

He was stubborn, cold, sometimes rude, and seemingly uncaring and ungrateful for the countless hours, and large amounts of moral, physical, and mental support that she had given him during his rehabilitation. She only smiled at his actions though, and he cursed her because that stupid smile only made him all the more attracted to her, and for some unforeseeable reason—unforeseeable to Jefferson anyways—the colder he became, the more she began to love him.

She was used to this kind of stubbornness and introverted behavior. She _knew _that it _meant _that he cared. She knew this from experience. She had experienced it with one of her former friends—who, coincidentally, was also a man who had stolen her heart with his heroics as well, a man named Victor Stone, a man known by his superhero alias: "_Cyborg_."

She had never told Victor that she loved him though, and she had always regretted that decision. She was determined not to make the same mistake twice.

Jefferson and Sarah became _very close_, but neither admitted their true feelings for the other, until the night that they thought that they would lose the other.

When Jefferson was in-costume and on patrol one night, he had stopped by the rehab center, and even though he claimed that it was "strictly business," both Sarah and Jefferson knew that the visit wasn't due to business, but rather, pleasure. He may have been cold, calculating, and seemingly uncaring to Sarah, but he didn't keep _any _secrets from her. She _knew _that Jefferson was the hero known as "_Black Lightning_."

She had enough experience with superheroes, their alter-egos, and their secret identities in the past to be considered a trustworthy and well-meaning ally. Unfortunately though, having Black Lightning in costume around the rehab center attracted the _wrong _kind of attention.

A rival gang of a patient that Sarah was tending to came to the center that night. Slowly and surely, they made their way onto the property of the center's main compound. They intended to _scare _her; however, upon seeing the hero Black Lightning in her presence, their animosity, audacity and anger towards the kind-hearted woman only skyrocketed. They now intended to _kill _her, _and _her hero counterpart.

Black Lightning was a _very attentive_ and vigilant hero, however, due to his intense "conversation" that he was at-the-time engaged in with Sarah, he did not notice the armed men approaching the two. The moment he did notice them, however, it was far too late.

The men opened fire, and few of their stray bullets caught Jefferson in the left arm, and another few went flying towards Sarah. Jefferson did his best to intercept the path of the bullets, but for the most part he failed. The wounds that the two sustained were not life-threatening, but they were _severe_.

After seeing the wounded condition that the men had left Sarah in, Black Lightning broke the sacred rule of superheroes. He killed the armed men, _all _of them. Using his metahuman abilities, his intense training, well-honed skills, and physical prowess, he made quick and short work of the bloodthirsty men that he had set his sights on.

After he was finished with the attackers, he returned his attention to Sarah. She was still alive, breathing, and even speaking well. However, she had lost a significant amount of blood, and the blood loss was not showing any sign of slowing or stopping.

She was becoming lightheaded and dizzy, and Jefferson knew what that meant. He had only one option. He performed a few crude—yet somehow also _very sanitary_—field procedures and he donated some of his own super-powered blood to her own body's dwindling blood reserves. He then carefully and crudely closed her own wounds, using his electricity and lightning, and he cauterized them.

Sarah was alive and well, but by this point, she was weak, and she had passed out. All throughout Jefferson's procedures, he continued to ask about her wellbeing, and he _constantly _inquired about her pain, comfort, and preferences. All Sarah had responded with—and _constantly _responded with—was that she was _fine_, and he need not worry about her.

He didn't believe a word that she uttered, and he had good reason to do so. After he had finished his procedures, Sarah lay on the asphalt, unconscious, but alive—_very alive_. He then used _all _of his remaining energy and effort—which, due to his own injuries and physical strain, by this point was not much energy or effort—and he proceeded to revive her, by using his own hands as a human defibrillator.

The process worked, but unfortunately, he lost his last amounts of energy and reserve strength and stamina with that final shock, and at that point, he was then the one who was lying unconscious on the cold asphalt. Sarah quickly regained consciousness and awareness, and her memories flooded back into her with an astounding clarity.

She went to thank Jefferson, only to find that he was next to her, unconscious and unmoving. She then proceeded to lift him up—carefully—and she found the task surprisingly easy. She carried him to the nearest hospital, and due to his status as one of Metropolis's premier superheroes, he was given the best treatment possible, although _entire time_, she made sure that his mask remain on.

After they had both recovered and recuperated, Sarah had asked why he had been so "_stupid_," and had attempted to sacrifice his life for her own. He responded that he found that she was more valuable than him. She found that hard to believe, and when she pressed him to give a reason as to why he thought that highly of her, he responded—out of anger, angst, guilt, regret, and many other countless pent-up emotions—that he loved her.

He expected _some _form of reciprocation, but he did not expect her to respond _so fast_. Her lips were on his before he could take another breath, and he would have sacrificed all the breaths that he had remaining to continue kissing her. That began their relationship, which was, from that point on, as strong as steel itself.

The fact that they had shared _more _than their love was simply something that strengthened their relationship. After a few odd occurrences and experiences, Sarah was promptly taken to "_S.T.A.R. Labs_," in the heart of Metropolis, to be tested her for metahuman abilities.

The tests returned positive, and the two had very different reactions. Apparently Jefferson's blood had not only saved her life, but had also injected her with his mutagenic and metahuman genes as well, but they were latent and non-dominant at that point. What had _activated _the genes, and as such, Sarah's metahuman abilities as well, was the defibrillating shock that Jefferson had delivered to her heart to save her life.

Now, they both had complete and utter control of every electron in their body, as well as the ability to bend, warp, project, shoot, and twist their own electrons, and thus, lightning itself. She was ecstatic. She wanted to go on adventures with him, but he refused, thinking it far too dangerous. She frowned at this, and she continued to persist, but he continued to resist.

He continued to resist, only until she had _proved _how useful she could be in the field. She had proved her usefulness by saving his life. That week, the headlines of the newspapers were buzzing about how the new hero, "_Super Shocker_," had freed Black Lightning from his latest predicament, and helped him bring down the criminals that he was after.

From that point on, the two truly were inseparable. Jefferson had agreed to train her and allow her to accompany him his many adventures—for more reasons than one. He found that her new costume suited her figure very well, and she quickly took notice of this, and she exploited his mental weakness of this fact whenever she could.

The two continued to fight crime, and they balanced their love life with their vigilante life, but they never became betrothed or married because they felt that it would expose them, and it would lead to a family and weaknesses, and neither of them wanted that. But, regardless of what they wanted, that is what they got. Soon, Sarah was pregnant, and some time later their son, Shane Simms would be born.

Shane had grown up with both of his parents, and he loved and respected them both, until he realized that his two older sisters, Jenny and Anissa Pierce, had another mother, and that he was an "_illegitimate_" child. Shane had not known this information, until he had stupidly stumbled upon it.

He was _furious _at his parents from keeping this from him. But, then again, he really should have guessed that he wasn't _completely _related to his sisters, as they were completely African-American, and he was Half-White-Half-Black. Regardless of this fact, he loved and respected his sisters—_always_. It was his parents whom he did not respect after he found the information that they had been withholding from him.

In that instant, his anger reached new heights, and when his rage peeked, he discovered another secret that his parents had kept from him: he was a metahuman, a superhuman. He had the exact same abilities and powers that his parents used to fight crime so many times in the past. However, after experiencing this newfound power, he _demanded _an explanation, and his parents reluctantly gave him one.

He could not handle what was coming out of their mouths, and he made a rash decision that he would regret ever since. He left. He ran away. He was found by his older sister, Jenny—who, at the time, was operating under the hero alias "_Lightning_"—and she tried her best to convince him to go home. He refused at _every _attempt that she made, but in turn, he developed a serious reliability and respect towards his sister.

He was now homeless, though, so he took-up residence with one of the few people who would allow him to do so, and who would also enjoy his company. He lived with his sister, Jenny, for some time, and she taught him how to control his abilities, but she soon found that his abilities, unlike the rest of the family, were deeply dependent on his _emotions_.

He tried his best, and he pushed himself to, and _beyond_, his limits, but still he was always unstable and out-of-control.

When his parents were killed, it only made things worse. He reached their home time just in time to hear their last words, and their last words _made _him respect, love, and cherish them. Those words also made him simultaneously _hate _himself.

They told him that they never married, to protect him, and that they would have gladly sacrificed themselves to save him, because he was their son, their flesh-and-blood, a _part _of themselves, and as such, they wanted nothing more than for him to be safe. His rage soared at that moment, and the people who had killed his parents, people who called themselves Hero Hunters, were the ones who felt the lethal wraith of Shane Simms.

He killed them. They were already _terribly injured_, due to their long, demanding, and violent battles with Shane's parents, and they were not expecting another threat to their well-being. Even though this was true, the Hero Hunters that were assigned to hunt Black Lightning and Super Shocker should have _easily _killed Shane, but there was something about this boy that _prevented _them from doing just that.

Shane had his abilities and powers at his disposal and control—for the most-part, and he was well-aware of their functions and how to use them—but, as he had previously discovered in his intense training with his sister, his abilities were deeply dependent upon his emotions as well. His rage fueled his conquest. The anger, guilt, and thirst for revenge that he felt that night gave him enough power and prowess to easily end his enemies, so he did _end _them—_both _of them.

That was so long ago, though. Since then, his sister Anissa had passed away in the Hero Hunting, taking her Hero Hunter with her, while Jenny was somehow able to defeat and escape her Hero Hunter, almost unscathed. Jenny had continued to train him, to teach him, to _push _him to and _beyond _his limits, and it only brought the two closer than ever, but that closeness only made her death all the more difficult for him to experience.

During her dying hour, she had revealed how she had beaten her Hero Hunter. She had "_super-charged_" her entire being, thus rendering her a walking being comprised completely of energy. She still kept her human form, but her powers, prowess, and energy output had been _greatly _increased. Using these new "upgrades," Jenny easily bested her Hero Hunter. Unfortunately, the downside and cost for "_super-charging_" herself was the _extreme _mental, physical, and emotional strain that it had put on her body, thus shortening her lifespan.

She _knew _that this would happen, and thus, she had pushed her brother to do better, to be able to fend for himself. In her last moments, she _made _him promise to take care of himself. He had begrudgingly promised her that he would. He wanted to take any or all of his deceased family members' places.

None of them deserved death. He had shunned them. They were the people who had loved and raised him, and he had shunned them. In their dying words, he had made peace with all of them, but he had _never _made peace with _himself_. He wished that he could switch places with them. He _constantly _wished this on himself.

Shane walked the streets, alone and alert. His jet-black hair was spiked-up, but it was not being held solidly in pace, as his wavy soft hair rippled in the wind, like waves on a rough sea. His skin was well-concealed by the grey sweatshirt that he now wore as he continued to walk silently along the deserted street.

His perfectly tanned skin was a light brown color with the perfect mix between his mother's skin tone and his father's skin tone. His golden-yellow irises gleamed with a luminosity and intensity that was _clearly _not human—or not _completely _human—and they were eyes that were well-trained. They were odd eyes, but they were somehow intriguingly _enticing _as well.

He continued to walk the lonely streets of Star City, looking for trouble hoping to find someone take his _anger _out on. He was beginning to think that it was lost cause, and then just as this thought entered his mind, he found proof to suggest otherwise.

Shane continued walking, and he came upon a group young unorganized gangsters, led or accompanied by, a very small group of young, untrained, untamed metahumans—superhumans. They were a group that had been terrorizing the local neighborhoods, and by their attitudes and expressions, they did _not _intend to stop. Shane smirked. They wouldn't stop, but Shane would stop them.

Shane pulled out and donned a pair of "_Specter Shades_," a special set of sunglasses, to prevent his "_Fatal Flare_," and lightning attacks from damaging his "_Electrically-Enhanced-Eyes_." He also donned these shades to conceal his eyes and identity as well.

The dull grey sweatshirt that he was currently wearing was in deep contrast to the colors that raged on his insides. The sweater was made out of a "_Power Polyester_," a material that his mother had specially made to withstand their family's high level of body heat and their intense and lethal lightning bursts. His father had his newest costume out of the material, and it had proved _very _useful.

His sisters and mother had followed suit. He had never had a costume, so his mother had taken to creating hand-made garments for him to wear to everyday places, without the possibility of getting angry and spontaneously "_lighting up_," and having his flammable clothes combust as a result. It was a very useful material for people in his unique position.

He pulled his hood over his head, and he quickly and quietly approached the group of teens. He quickly noticed a small boy on the ground in the center of the rabble-rousing teens. He was badly beaten, and the teens around him were taunting him with humiliating and degrading remarks. The small boy appeared to be a metahuman as well, although he either had little control over his abilities, or he did not want to use his abilities, for fear of upsetting the older, more menacing metahuman teens.

Shane silently slipped into the crowd of teens, and he quickly noticed that only three of the teens were truly metahumans. The rest were simply spectators, and as such, would serve to be absolutely no problem for Shane to deal with. He did not know exactly which abilities the three boys possess, but he did not care.

He approached them, nonetheless. The small boy on the ground was injured, bruised and battered, and lying helpless on the cold asphalt floor of the alley when Shane arrived. The largest boy there—the apparent leader of the group—seemed to be leading the rounds of torments and torture that they were putting the boy through. His fist balled up in furious flames, and just as he did so, Shane spoke up.

"You know, if you wanted to start a '_fire_,' then you should really ask an _expert_." Shane addressed the pyrokinetic boy before him. As he spoke, Shane snapped his fingers, sending sparks of vicious voltage sparking from his fingertips.

"Beat it kid." the boy replied, and just as he did so, his foot was set aflame and the flaming foot went flying straight at the small boy's head. The older boy's foot never made contact with the small boy's head, though.

Shane's entire body became a free-flowing stream of electrons, and he took-on the apparent form of a mobile and sentient bolt of lightning. This new form that Shane had acquired arched towards the smaller boy quite quickly—Shane could not move as fast as lightning, but he could move very quickly—and he scooped the small boy out of the way of the incoming flaming foot.

The lightning bolt reformed into the shape of a human boy in grey sweatshirt, and Shane now had the small boy in his arms. He set the boy down gently, and he spoke to him.

"_Run_." Shane spat at the boy. It was a very vehement tone, but the boy took it very nicely, and he nodded his head and fled, screaming as he did so.

"_T-Thank You_!" the boy yelled to his savior over his retreating figure, and although boy had an obvious limp, the three metahumans—and the _many _spectators—let him go. They had another interest entirely now. The pyrokinetic, whom Shane had designated as being the leader of the group around him, addressed the boy with his hood on.

"You just ruined our fun, kid!" he screeched at the grey-clad teenager before him. His two metahuman cohorts turned their attention towards him as well, and they all prepared to attack.

Shane smirked, although behind his hood they could not see his facial features, and he responded with a slight chuckle. "That's funny, because _my fun_ just _started_." Shane responded, and although they could not see that he was smirking, they could easily tell from his tone that he was doing just that.

The three metahumans charged the hooded boy, and Shane easily evaded their incoming attacks, as his body became a living lightning bolt, and his free-flowing electrons spread out over the sparse area, only to come back together not even a full second later, and then, there Shane stood, behind the three angry teens, completely unharmed and unamused.

His smirk widened. This time, the metahumans charged him one at a time. First came a boy with heat vision. Shane avoided his lethal eyeshot laser by performing aerial flip backwards. The moment he had regained his footing and landed on the ground, Shane spun around and swiftly kicked the boy upside his head, turning his leg into an electrical conduit and surrounding his leg with a fatal field of electrical energy as he did so, thus transforming his leg into a sharp, stinging blade of lightning. The boy promptly fell to the ground, unconscious and bleeding from the head.

Next came a boy with slight super strength. He charged Shane with speed, but he did not show any form or focus. In a blink, Shane had changed once again, and the living lightning bolt traveled through the air above the metahuman boy and landed on his other side, behind his back. Shane then took the boy by his neck, and flipped him onto the ground, crushing his skull against the pavement with enough force to knock him out as he did so.

Then, there was one.

Shane stood there silently, waiting for the pyrokinetic to charge or attack him, but he never did. He launched a projectile instead. The flaming ball of fire hurtled towards Shane's face, but he didn't move or budge in the slightest. Just as the projectile was about to melt the teen's face off, Shane raised his hand up, and with a quick swipe, he wrapped his hands in electrical energy, deflecting the fireball that the pyrokinetic had launched, and the flaming ball of fury went zooming off in a different direction.

The pyrokinetic was surprised and enraged at the same time, but before he could react—even in the slightest—Shane made a quick movement with his hands, and he shot a bolt of lightning from the fingers on his right hand, which promptly struck the pyrokinetic in his legs, thus wounding and crippling him.

The pyrokinetic yelped in pain and anguish as he fell to the ground, clutching his singed and open wound. The living lightning bolt appeared again, and in record time it soared to the pyrokinetic's side. The lightning reformed to reveal the grey-clad teenager that had given this small gang so much trouble. The boy that had almost kicked the younger boy earlier was now in his former victim's position, as Shane rendered the boy unconscious with a swift kick to the head.

The pyrokinetic felt to the floor, unconscious and unmoving—out _cold_. Shane's smirk widened once again, and he turned his attention back to the other teens that were standing around the small boy that was about to get beaten.

Shane scanned the audience once, and that was all it took. They all began to disperse with _record _speed, and soon the alleyway was clear of everyone except the teen with the grey sweatshirt.

Shane's smirk subsided and he continued on down the lonely road that he was taking. He sighed. He was still angry.

* * *

><p>Sam huffed in frustration. She wanted to do more than just <em>huff<em> in frustration, though. She wanted to _kill_ in frustration. Her deep blue eyes looked into her brother's own ocean eyes, and she focused _deeply_. She _had _to get him to see reason.

"I was only going to _scare_ them! I wasn't going to ki—" she started, addressing him, but before she could finish he interrupted his little sister.

"Sam, you and I _both_ know that you were going to _kill_ them." he responded somberly.

She was slow to respond, but when she did respond, she stopped with her charade. "Fine. I was going to kill them. They would have deserved it, though. I mean, are you _deaf_? Did you hear what they _called _you? You are _not _a _decrepit disabled old man_! You are Jon Kent! They have _no _idea how many times you risked your life to save their own pathetic existences. What right do they have to call you a—" she started her raging rant, but he cut her off.

"…They have _every right _to call me that. That is _exactly _what I am…" he trailed off, sounding defeated, and obviously believing what he just said.

Sam went wide-eyed and raised her eyebrow. "_Don't. You. Ever. Say. That._" she addressed her brother in a very warning tone.

"Sam, I'm _not _dad. Stop thinking that I—" Jon began to defend his view that he was a crippled old man, and nothing more, but Sam interrupted him before he could finish.

"Maybe not. But, _you _sure as hell have a right to wear his last name—and _proudly _wear it, at that—which is good. _At least one _of his children can do that." Sam finished and exhaled deeply.

Jon looked at his sister like he wanted to slap her. "You have _just as much_ right as me to—" he started, but as Sam cut him off, as was the general pattern in this ongoing conversation that the two were having.

"No. No, I do _not_. What right do _I _have to wear that name? You and dad were the two of the greatest heroes of our time. Only Doomsday and Darkseid could stand up to you two in mere strength, and almost no one could match you in wills—even the Lantern Corps had to admit that. I _tried _to be that person—that person that dad was, the person that _you _were—_no_, that you _are_—and I did just the opposite. I crippled the man who was wearing the Superman title—and rightly wearing it, as well—and I acted like the rash little girl that you both taught and trained me _not _to be. I _crippled Superman_! How can you ever say that I deserve that name? I do _not_. If _dad_ was here during the '_Hero Hunting_,' then the Kryptonians would probably still be here. But, instead _I _was there, and the Kryptonians were all killed or crippled. Dad didn't train me and teach me so much because he saw my '_potential_,' to be a '_hero_,' but because he saw my potential to be a '_nuisance_,' and he _knew_ that without that training, I'd be one of the people that he fought so hard to sto—" Sam's rant was interrupted by the bone-crushing hug that her brother trapped her in.

She was on the verge of tears—tears of _anger_, tears of guilt, tears of _hate_, hate for herself. Jon looked down at her and he wiped her tears away. "No, Sam. You're _wrong_. Dad trained you, he taught you, because he did see your potential to be hero. He _sacrificed _himself, to _stop _Doomsday, so that _you _would have a safe world to live in. And he'd do it again. You were his _daughter_. You were his _flesh and blood_. You _are _his flesh and blood. You are a _part _of him. Dad came from a dying a world, and he _knew _that he was _never _going to let another world that he loved _die_. You became his world. Don't you _ever _doubt yourself or your abilities. You are Samantha Lane. You are the daughter of Superman! You _are _a hero. Dad didn't kill. I did. Doomsday killed dad, and I killed Doomsday. That does _not _make me bad, though. I stopped this world from dying, by _stopping _that _monster_ that would have destroyed it. I did that because I saw something _worth _saving in this world. I saw the human instinct. The instinct in humanity was _worth _fighting for. They had the instinct to _live_, to _continue _to live. They had the instinct to _fight _to _live_. That is what I found _value _in—that human instinct. That is what dad found value in as well." Jon said to his sister, cupping her chin and lifting her face to his own eye level.

Sam just looked at him, speechless.

"…And _you _have that instinct as well. Don't you _ever _forget that. You are the last of the Kryptonians, the last of the '_Human-Hybrids_' and, as such, you have a _right_—no, a _privilege _—to protect that instinct at all costs. …And, you did _not _cripple me, Sam. I did that to myself. I should _never _have put you in the field to fight those _monsters_. You were _far too young_, and I should have known that. Kara and Conner knew that, but I didn't listen to them. My mind wasn't working correctly. All I thought was that there were four Hero Hunters, and there were four of us, so we should have been alright, but I was _wrong_. I shouldn't have put you in that position. You weren't ready, and it was _my fault_ that you weren't ready, _not _yours. I was crippled, because I put myself in harm's way, for _you_. …And, Sam, I'd do it again, and again, and _again_. You're my little sister. You're _my _flesh and blood too, and I saw _exactly _what dad saw in you as well. It's time _you _start seeing it as well." he finished his speech, brushing a strand of her jet black hair out of her cold blue eyes, which were now filled with tears.

Sam smiled up at her brother, and he smiled back. She quickly dried her eyes. She wasn't sure if she crying from anger, hate, fury, disappointment, or happiness—although the last emotion was a _rare _one for Sam to experience—but she was almost positive, that for the first time in a very long time, she was crying because she was happy.

Sam didn't cry often, though. She _hated _when other people saw her crying. She _hated _looking weak. She owed it to her father to be stronger than that. She owed Conner. She owed her brother. Conner Kent was Samantha's other brother—her deceased brother. Conner was also the clone of Superman, and Conner had been designed to replace Superman, incase Superman decided to use his powers for destruction, instead of salvation.

Conner had been created, by the ambitious agency called "_Cadmus_." Clark Kent, also known by his family as Kal-El, would not let his blood-bonded clone—his _son _—replace him, though—at least, not without the proper teachings, first. So, when Conner had been assigned to test his abilities against Superman, he had attacked Superman. And Superman had loved him, as a son—not right away, of course, but eventually the two saw eye-to-eye. And, so, Conner, Jon, and Samantha were the three children of Superman, all blessed with his power, skill, and tenacity—and all cursed with his enemies.

Sam's confused little mind seemed to reflect on all of this information, as she constantly thought about the words that her older brother—the only brother that shad left—had spoken. Jon nodded at her, and he began to get up from the couch that they were both sitting on to get his Kryptonite shot. Jon was crippled, but not in the traditional sense of the word.

He could still walk, talk, and move—albeit _very slowly_, and with great difficultly—but, what made him truly crippled was the fact that _all _of his powers, abilities, and gifts had been _painfully _stripped away from him. After the "_Hero Hunting_," Jon was left in bad shape—_very bad _shape.

All four of the Hero Hunters that had been assigned to hunt the Kryptonians had been dealt with, and they had been defeated, but the cost was great. Conner had been killed, and in order to save Sam from a similar fate, Jon had put himself in the path of one of his enemy's incoming attacks—one great enough to shatter an entire planet—and he took _all _of the hit, full-force. The results were disastrous. He was dying, and there was only one way to save him.

His cells had been so badly injured, so badly damaged and degraded, that they could no longer regenerate or reproduce. He couldn't make new cells, and the ones he had were damaged and dying. The only way to allow the remaining cells to regenerate and reproduce—through Kryptonian mitosis—was to flood them with radiation.

However, this required a _specific _kind of radiation, a kind of radiation that caused Kryptonian cells to flood with so much energy, that they _had _to reproduce to alleviate the potential burnout and destruction of the cell itself. It was the _only _kind of radiation that would do that: "_Kryptonite Radiation_." It gave Jon a chance to heal, but it also gave him a limited existence—or an existence that _he _saw as limited, anyways. He could walk, talk, and move—although with _great difficulty_—but he was forever doomed to be a "_Crippled Kryptonian_," as he saw it.

The small amounts of Kryptonite poisoning that he had received from his "_treatments_," although usually deadly to Kryptonians, were miniscule and almost insignificant, due to the constant antidote and anti-radiation steroids and medications that he took. However, the amounts of kryptonite poisoning in his systems were enough to _completely _sap him of all of his abilities. The reason for this was simple. _All _Kryptonians were vulnerable and weak, when exposed to or otherwise came into contact with Kryptonite.

Kryptonians were born, raised, and trained on a planet, where not only their gravity was more than 100-times-greater than that of Earth, but which also had a sun much weaker and older than that of Earth. Krypton—the home planet of the Kryptonians—had a large megastructure surrounding its atmosphere, which harnessed the energy of its nearest sun, in order to provide a limitless and never-ending power source and source of sustenance for the people of Krypton.

The object that _gathered _this energy was another megastructure, which was built around the Kryptonian's sun itself, and feed the sun's energy radiation directly into the atmosphere of Krypton to be collected and harvested by its people. This megastructure which was built around the Kryptonian's main sun created a manmade structure as large—or _larger_, rather—than an _entire planet_. This second "planet" was referred to as "_Krypton-Prime_," by the Kryptonians.

The solar energy, and radiation from their local sun was fed into the collectors of "_Krypton-Prime_," and it was then sent to and received by transmitters on the "_Original Planet Krypton_." Although "_Krypton-Prime_" was intricately important to the Kryptonians, no one saw the need to _ever _venture to "_Krypton-Prime_," for _any _reason, whatsoever. Unfortunately, though, this disregard for the workings of the Kryptonians' megastructure would cost them their planet.

When their sun went out with a supernova, the effects, energy, destructive power, and blast radius of the raging blast were compounded, increased, and multiplied by the collectors on "_Krypton-Prime_," and all of that energy—and the explosion itself—was sent _directly _into Planet Krypton's atmosphere, thus killing or eradicating its inhabitants. Those who did not die due to the initial blast would soon perish due to the planet's core exploding, because of the heat of the supernova that had caused the planet's core to become unstable. And, through some unforeseen miracle, if any Kryptonian had managed to survive any of this, there was one sure thing that would still kill them in the end. Kryptonite poisoning.

_Only _two Kryptonians would escape the dying world of Krypton, and unbeknownst to themselves—as they were babies at the time—these two survivors of Planet Krypton's destruction were related to each other by blood. They were cousins—Kal-El and Kara Zor-El. These two soon-to-be saviors of the world had escaped the treacheries of the dying Planet Krypton itself, but they had _not _escaped the treacheries of Kryptonite. Kryptonite was the largest weakness of the Kryptonian people, and it had been _created _in the _destruction _of their homeworld.

Upon planet Krypton, Kryptonians lived normal lives and exhibited no extraordinary abilities or powers. However, when a Kryptonian was sent to another planet—preferably one much like Earth—he or she experienced a _major _power-boost, as the comparably _weak _gravity of Earth allowed them to perform _amazing _feats that they would have been previously unable to do. The aspect that truly affected he Kryptonians, and as such, made them stronger, swifter, and more durable than most would have ever imagined, though, was the fact that, when they encountered a sun much younger and larger—and as such more powerful than Krypton's own sun—their own power increased as well—to almost _unimaginable _limits.

The longer that a Kryptonian spent on a planet like Earth, one containing the same conditions, the stronger, more agile, and better the Kryptonian became. Thus, Kal-El, Sam's father and Earth's most prominent Superman, was the strongest Kryptonian to have ever walked on Earth. Being raised and trained on planet Earth since birth had played a great role in that fact.

Kryptonite was simply the material of the surface of their homeworld, with the addition of enough excess energy and radiation to weaken even a powerful Kryptonian. The reason that Kryptonians were so weak and fragile when exposed to Kryptonite, though, was due to the simple fact that Kryptonite radiation prevented Kryptonians from absorbing _any kind_ of solar radiation. The large amounts of Kryptonite radiation in Jon's cells now prohibited the radiation of the yellow sun of Earth from powering his abilities or charging his cells.

Jon had, since that point of becoming powerless, looked down upon himself, much like Sam had looked down upon herself as well. Surprisingly, the only true worth that the two siblings saw was in _each other_.

Jon continued to try to get off the couch, but Sam stopped him. Sam forcefully pulled her brother back onto the couch. He looked at her in shock, but she only smirked in return.

"Sit down. _I'll _get the needle." she explained. He smiled and nodded at her.

Sam got up and returned moments later to the couch in the main room of their apartment with a needle and some rubbing alcohol. Their apartment was in upper-west Hong Kong, and they were currently sharing it with Stephanie Brown—the hero known as "_Black Bat_."

She sighed as she sterilized the injection area with some rubbing alcohol, and she finally administered the green liquid contained within the syringe into her brother's waiting arm. He cringed slightly, but he made no other movements. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. She got up once again, and she returned soon thereafter, holding two pills and a glass of water; they were his anti-radiation antidote medication. Jon nodded, and he took the medication without hesitation. Sam sat back down on the couch, and he smiled at his sister.

Jon tossed her the remote, and she proceeded to give it back to him. He looked at her quizzically, but he shrugged it off. He turned the television on, and the first thing on the screen was a breaking news story about a hostage situation in downtown Hong Kong. Sam looked at the screen with dismay. She quickly got up from the couch, and she went for the door of apartment. Jon stopped her with his voice.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked her.

"Out." she replied solemnly.

"Sam, Steph has got that covered. I promise." he responded.

"I know. That's what I'm worried about. She might not leave any left for _me_." Sam responded, turning around and smirking at her brother as she did so. Jon chuckled lightly.

"Alright, but make sure to conceal your identity." he replied, tossing Sam one of Steph's old domino masks that she wore during her days as "_Robin_."

Sam caught the mask, and she quickly put it on and tied it off in the back.

"Just stay out of Steph's way, for the most part, at least." Jon pleaded.

His sister gave him a knowing smirk. "I'll stay _out _of her way, when you get _in _her way." she replied, her voice dripping with innuendo and suggestiveness.

Jon raised an eyebrow and went slightly red in the face. "…Um… …_Excuse _me…?" he questioned his little sister.

She smirked once again. "You know _exactly _what I meant by that." was all she said in response.

Jon's redness increased exponentially. "Just go." he said softly.

Sam smirked once again before she disappeared, and then she was gone, off into the night, always silent, always stealthy, and always staying in the shadows.

* * *

><p>Terry's eyes popped open, and he sighed at the prospect of another day. He turned on his side, and he silenced his alarm clock. His dark grey-blue eyes stared in utter hatred at the clock for a moment, before he closed them once again. He closed his eyes for a few moments, and the moment he opened them again, he was up, out of the bed, and completely alert.<p>

Terry opened the small miniature refrigerator located near his bed, and he quickly downed a fresh and cold bottle of water. He then took a protein bar from the same fridge, and he proceeded to practically inhale it. He then downed another bottle of water from the same fridge.

Then he stretched, and for the man—who was in his _very early _thirties—his elasticity and limberness were _astounding_. He then rolled and cracked all of his durable joints, and he sighed deeply, because he knew what came next.

He rushed down to the basement of his modest apartment, and mounted his treadmill. He set the speed setting to maximum, and he set no time limit for his run. Then he started his run, and his stamina, speed, and endurance were put to the ultimate test in human capabilities—a test which he _easily _passed.

Moments later, after the treadmill showed that he had run over ten miles at its maximum speed, he stopped the machine and dismounted it. He then walked over to his free weights. He grabbed two fifty-pound dumbbells, and he then proceeded to do fifteen sets of twenty-five lifts with the dumbbells in each hand, and his form was excellent.

He relaxed for a few moments, before quickly dropping into a sit-up position and performing _500 _consecutive sit-ups, each of growing intensity, power, and pace. He sat up the finial time, and he caught his breath, and his breathing normalized far faster than the average human's breathing would have stabilized.

He got to his feet, and he made his way back upstairs, to his bedroom. Once there, he made his way to his adjoining bathroom, and was quick in taking a shower and brushing his teeth. After his morning rituals were completed, he heard a deep growling in his stomach, and after donning a black t-shirt, and just as he was about to descend downstairs to feed himself, there was a knock at the front door.

He paused for a moment. He was not expecting company today. His eyes narrowed at the suspiciousness of this. Bruce had instilled such suspicion in him, and it wasn't always a good thing, but lately Terry was beginning to see the value of such a level of paranoia—a _healthy _level of paranoia.

Terry carefully and cautiously opened his front door to reveal the beautiful black eyes of his ex-wife, Dana Tan. She was very unhappy, or so it seemed. Terry was somewhat shell-shocked. He did not expect her to visit today. Then again, he _never _expected to visit unless he had to…

'_...Damn! Not today! I couldn't have forgotten!_' Terry thought to himself. Apparently the annoyed expression on Dana's face was enough to answer his self-asked questions.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Dana asked the dumbfounded man in front of her.

Terry quickly shook off his stupor. "…_What_? No! _Of course _not! How could I forget my baby girl's competition?" he asked in utter disbelief.

Dana rolled her eyes. "Just don't screw anything up, okay?" she requested.

Terry smirked and nodded.

"…Oh, and Terry, I know that the clown is back, but listen to me, don't you—" she started, but Terry cut her off.

"Dana, I have _no _intention of putting that suit back on. Dick can handle that. I am _done _with Batman." he whispered to her.

She looked at him wide-eyed. "I wasn't going to suggest _that_. I was only going to say keep the danger level around Diana down. …Are you _sure _that hanging up that suit is such a good idea? It was one of the few things about you that I actually liked." Dana responded, smiling.

Terry chuckled slightly. "Well, thanks Dana. It's nice to know that that _only _part of me that you liked wasn't even technically '_me_.'" he replied.

She chuckled slightly too. "It wasn't the _only _part. …But, it was _one _of them." she said, smiling.

Terry smiled back. '_Why does she do that? She has to know what she does to me!_' Terry thought to himself, and undoubtedly, Dana had a similar thought running through her mind.

Just as Terry was about to respond, their daughter walked into view. Diana McGinnis was about her father's height, with her mother's dark raven hair, and eyes of an interesting color, with a noticeable silver streak in her irises. She walked up to her dad, bags and suitcases in tow.

"Hey dad." she said, smiling up at her father.

"Hey Di." he responded kissing her on the forehead.

"Where am I staying?" she inquired quizzically.

Terry froze for a moment. "…_Uhhh_..." was all he could muster.

Dana rolled her eyes, but her daughter was the first to respond verbally. She narrowed her eyes at her father. "You forgot, didn't you?" she questioned him.

He looked at her seriously. "Di, I could _never _forget about the most important—scratch that, the _two _most important things," Terry looked at Dana as he said "_two_," and she proceeded to blush slightly, "in the world to me." Terry finished, and his daughter smiled.

"…So, where am I sleeping then?" she asked again.

"…You can take my bed, and I'll sleep on the couch." Terry responded smiling lovingly at his daughter. She smiled back.

"Cool. Thanks dad." she replied, kissing him on the forehead and heading inside the apartment.

Terry watched his sixteen-year-old daughter walk into the house, and as soon as she was out of sight, he turned his attention back to Dana, who was looking more and more anxious by the moment.

"…_Dana_?..." he questioned her troubled expression.

"…_Huh_…?" she responded, slowly snapping out of her reverie.

"Dana, she'll be _fine_. I _promise_." Terry assured her, crossing his heart and smiling.

Dana nodded and smiled in return. She knew how protective Terry could be of Diana, and she was sometimes appreciative of that. It _pushed _their daughter to _prove _to her father that she could protect herself, which in turn, pushed herself to ascend to his level in mental magnitude and physical prowess. She was almost as skilled as her father was in basic hand-to-hand combat, and that was truly remarkable, seeing as her father was one of the few men to claim the title of Batman.

In fact, Diana's physical prowess was a major reason in the fact that she was staying _here_, in Gotham, for the next few weeks. She was a _serious competitor_, and her high-ranking in the state's track-and-field community meant that she had _many _races to run—races to run, in Gotham.

However, this presented a problem to her mother. Since her mother lived outside of the city, the only logical option was for her stay _here_, with her father for the next few weeks, and Terry couldn't have been any happier about the arrangement. Dana, however, had some reservations, and they were _obviously _painted on her face.

Dana was worried, and rightly so. She had moved _away _from Gotham for a reason. It didn't hold too many happy memories for her.

Terry eyed Dana carefully, and he gestured to her fire red dress that she was wearing. "What's with the dress?" he asked her, scrutinizing the dress in a way that would have made any other woman blush a deep pink. Dana, however, showed no sign of being affected by it.

"Job interview." she responded, and he nodded in understanding.

Dana looked Terry square in the eye, and she spoke slowly and seriously. "Just be _careful_, Terry." she commanded him, leaving no room for debate, and it was obvious and clearly implied that she wanted _both _him _and _Diana to be careful. Terry nodded in response. Dana started to walk away, and just before she left his view, he called out to her.

"…Hey, Dana!" he called, and she turned around.

"…_Yeah_…?" she replied, a little taken aback.

"You look _good_ in that dress." he said, indicating the searing scarlet red dress that she was wearing, and smirking as he did so.

Dana rolled her eyes. "Thanks Terry." was all she responded with, smirking as she did so. Then she turned around continued walking out of his peripherals.

Terry closed the door, only to find his daughter standing there, looking at him with a knowing smirk on her face.

"…_What_…?" he asked her.

"You still like mom." she retorted, smiling.

Terry smirked. "Nope. I just think that she looked pretty hot in that dress." he replied.

"Eww." Diana responded to her father's quip, and she proceeded to leave the site of his latest disgusting remark.

Terry chuckled in amusement. These next few weeks were going to be fun.

* * *

><p>Mar'i awoke with a slight start. Her deep violet eyes scanned the empty dark room around her. She sighed in content. It was only a dream.<p>

She edged her way out of her bed, and she did so slowly. She was still slightly sore from the most recent beating that her mother had given her in their last training session, and she was careful not aggravate her already tired and exhausted body.

Not even a full hour had passed since her last training session with her mother—and since her aunt and uncle had taken their armies to confront "_Sunstorm_," and his army of renegades and rebels. Her aunt and uncle still had not returned.

She eased her way out of her bed and out of her room. She quickly checked the silent hallway and noted that no one else in the palace was awake—or so she perceived. She exited her room, and she quickly and quietly made her way back down to the training courtyard. She reached the balcony that was overlooking the courtyard, and she stopped, gazing at the three moons up above her. She stared off into the night, and she sighed very deeply.

She walked over the other corner of the balcony, where she was greeted by the view of a large, rolling green field—one as large as the average _large _city on Earth. The field was littered with craters, blackened soot marks, and residue from exploding starbolts. It was the testing range—the place to test the range, effectiveness, accuracy, radius, and general destructiveness of ranged array attacks, new or old.

Mar'i sighed deeply, and closed her eyes. She brought her two hands together so that the index finger and middle finger of each hand was touching its counterpart in a triangle-like shape, and she began to focus—_hard_.

She drew _all _of her remaining energy, emotions, effort, stamina, and will into the tips of her four fingers that were touching. Slowly but surely, a small, but concentrated and condensed, violent violet, spark began to form between her touching fingers, and Mar'i could feel its energy.

She waited for as long as she could withstand, drawing as much energy, stamina, and power as she could from every part of her body. Soon, though, she was forced to open her eyes, as the strain that she was putting on her body became too great for her to withstand.

She looked at the purple spark that she held in between her fingers, and gazed upon it in awe. This small spark, no larger than a quarter, had taken almost _all _of her energy, stamina, power, and focus to muster and create. Not only that, but she knew that, upon impact, this small spark could level an entire city—well it _would _have been able to level an entire city, had she done it right, and had she had enough energy to create a _real _spark, without feeling so drained and weak.

She was weak, though. Her heart rate was racing faster than should be allowed—even for her—and her breathing was rough and ragged. Sweat beads had formed all over her body, and she wanted nothing more than to fall into a deep sleep. Her body had taken its toll from generating the small spark between her fingers. She looked out upon the vast field before, and she contemplated launching the blast, but argued against herself for obvious reasons. The sound and light emitted from such a blast would surely wake her mother, and she did not want to wake her mother.

Mar'i sighed as she decided what to do. Just then, a voice was heard from the balcony, and it made the decision for her.

"Shoot it." her mother said from a few feet behind her.

Mar'i turned around to look at the speaker in surprise and shock. She hadn't even heard her approaching. Kori smiled at her daughter, and she repeated her words. "Shoot it." she said again.

Mar'i nodded, and she turned back to the large testing range before her. She swung her arm back and forwards, releasing the small purple spark from her fingers as she did so. The spark flew for some distance, and it took some time before it made contact, but when it did make contact, it was _very clear_.

The resulting explosion was large—_very large_—and the sound was not only ear-splitting, but also mind-shattering. The very violent violet aura enveloped a large chunk of the green field below the two Tamaranian women. The radius of the blast was large enough to demolish a small city. It was powerful blast—a _very powerful_ blast—but it obviously took its toll on the one who had launched it. Mar'i dropped to the ground, out of breath, on the verge of collapsing, and obviously out of energy.

Her mother was quickly at her side though, and she quickly helped the girl to her feet. Mar'i's breathing soon evened out, but she was still obviously _very tired and exhausted_. Kori hugged her daughter for a few moments, before she released her, making sure that she could stand on her own. After she made sure that she could keep her own balance, Kori addressed her daughter.

"Good. _Very _good. Your use of the ranged '_Supernova_' attack is very skilled, and it is commendable how much progress you have made." Kori said, smiling at her daughter.

"…_But_…" her daughter urged her on.

Kori raised an eyebrow. "…_But_, _what_…?..." she responded.

Mar'i sighed. "I _know _when you're holding something back. What did I do wrong?" she questioned her mother.

Kori shook her head, smiling as she did so. "You did _nothing _wrong, Mar'i. You did everything _correctly_. Mastering this talent can be done no other way, except through intense and repetitive practice and training." she replied to her daughter's question.

Mar'i smiled at her mother's comment. The, she developed a devious smirk on her face. "…_Well_…" she trailed off.

Kori raised an eyebrow, yet again. "…Well, _what_…?..." she asked her daughter.

"Why don't _you _show me what the '_Fully-Mastered Form_' of the attack looks like." she suggested, and her mother smiled at the prospect.

"Very well. But, I warn you, this will be devastating." she informed her daughter.

Mar'i smirked. "I'm counting on it." she replied.

Kori chuckled. "Very well then." was all she said, and with that, she proceeded to perform the attack that her daughter had achieved just moments before.

Koriand'r arranged her hands in the same manner as her daughter had done moments before. She focused her energy, her emotions, her effort, her stamina, her power, her will, all into the fingertips of her touching fingers, and soon she was at full capacity, far before her daughter had reached her _minimal _energy capacity.

Kori opened her eyes, and she flung her emerald spark off into the distance, and soon it made contact with the testing range's floor, and the resulting blast was great and gruesome. The sound and light emitted from his blast was _far greater _than from the blast that Mar'i had launched earlier.

The force and aftershock of the blast knocked Mar'i back into the wall directly behind her, and her mother was _quickly _at her side. Kori was breathing deeply—_very deeply_—and she appeared to have used much more power, stamina, and energy than her daughter had previously done, but she hid it well.

Mar'i looked up at her mother, wide-eyed. She was still breathing very deeply. "_Wow._" was all Mar'i could say.

Kori smiled at her daughter and helped her up.

"That was an incredible amount of raw power." Mar'i commented, mouth slightly open in awe.

Kori's breathing was still very heavy and deep, and she helped her daughter up with some difficulty. Even though this was true, Mar'i's breathing was still heavier and deeper.

The two exhausted females looked at one another, a smile slowly crossing their faces.

"Believe me honey, through years of practice and instruction, your own tactics, talents, and skills will become even _more powerful _than what you just witnessed." Koriand'r assured her daughter, smiling.

"That is highly unlikely mother." Mar'i responded, sounding downcast and defeated.

Kori tilted her daughter's chin upwards, and she addressed her in a sincere, yet warning tone. "It will _only _become that powerful however, if you _believe _that it can reach that level. You must _never _lose that faith in yourself." she stated, promising her daughter.

Mar'i looked into her mother's eyes. "…But, my human half—" Mar'i started, but she was cut off by her mother before she could finish her statement.

"Your human half is a _strength_, not a weakness." Kori interrupted her daughter's train-of-thought.

Mar'i looked up at her mother with a somewhat quizzical and confused expression. "…How so?" she asked her mother.

Kori smiled as she explained herself to her daughter. "Tamaranians, and many species alike—Kryptonians, Daxumites, Krougarians, etc.—are far smarter, swifter, and stronger than humans are, and that is a fact." Kori started, but before she could finish, her daughter cut her off.

"…But, then, how is my human half a '_strength_,' and not a weakness?" she asked quizzically, and her mother responded by continuing her previous explanation.

"…_However_, humans possess a trait that puts all other races to shame." Kori stated, and her daughter was now thoroughly intrigued.

"What is that trait?" she asked her mother curiously.

"Perseverance." Kori responded.

Mar'i raised an eyebrow. "….But _all _species have that trait. I do not understand…" she trailed off, and her mother filled in the rest.

"Yes. But, _none _of them have the kind of perseverance that _humans _possess. They have such perseverance, that it breaks down any and all barriers or boundaries that they might have. In other terms, they have _no limits_." she explained, and her daughter went wide-eyed.

"…_How_… …_How _is that _possible_?" she asked in awe, and her mother was quick to respond.

"Other races, ourselves included, have _many _abilities, powers, and characteristics that make us _far _stronger, smarter and swifter than the average human. We, like the Kryptonians, use our sun's solar energy and radiation to power, fuel, and sustain our cells, which in-turn charges and energizes all of our cells, which in-turn charges and energizes our entire body. This energy gives us the power and prowess to do _amazing _things—things such as control the size and density of our cells, and thus, change or altitude, or fly as a result; create starbolts; or even perform amazing feats of '_superhuman_' strength. The _humans_, however, are born, raised, and nourished under a sun, and under a gravity, which allows them to live in an environment _without _the immense strain that is put on the bodies of _other _races, such as ourselves. This is a benefit in that the humans, in the regard that they have little or no strain put on their bodies, and thus, they can age _without _a strain on their physical or mental fitness. Species like _ourselves_, are required to _constantly _care and train, to reduce the strain on our minds, and on our bodies. This being true, it would mean that we are, as the facts show, smarter and stronger than the humans. _However_, humans have a perseverance, a _will_, which is _far stronger _than _any _race or species in existence. They have this _willpower_, because they _need _it to fight, to stand strong against foes of greater strength and speed. They have developed this willpower, this perseverance, as a _direct result _of constantly being belittled, bashed, or otherwise insulted by any and every other race out there. The humans saw something in themselves that the others did _not_ see, though, and they developed their will to fight for it." Kori elaborated on her earlier remarks.

Mar'i went even more wide-eyed. "…_What _was it that they saw that was worth fighting for?" she asked in a quelled voice.

Koriand'r chuckled slightly at her daughter's tepidness. "They saw that they had the not the privilege, but the _right_, to live, to exist, among, and beside those supposedly '_stronger_' species. They were _here_, already living, already existing, and thus, they had a _right _to continue to do so. They saw that the universe put them _here_, and as such, they had a _right_, a _purpose_, to continue to be here. So, they fought for that right. In their attempts to suppress, surpass, and otherwise supersede other races, however, they were unsuccessful, but they _never _stopped trying. Humans had a distinct physiology that allowed them to _constantly _surpass their limits, to break their barriers and boundaries, so that they had _no limits_. This was true, because their cells, their bodies healed after each injury, after each wound, but unlike every other species, when their bodies healed, it healed so that it was _stronger_ that it was before the injury had happened. This was a _great _and useful trait that the humans had, and they utilized it well, but they were still never able to become equal to or surpass any other race, because they had simply been born too '_weak_.' …But, _you_…" Kori finished, trailing off at the last word and gesturing to her daughter to finish for her.

"…But _me_, I _wasn't _born '_weak_,' so I have…" Mar'i trailed off, and her mother finished for her.

"…So you have a body, mind, and will _far greater _than most your age—or most of _any _age, for that matter—but, you also have _no limits_, and have can _ascend _to whatever level you wish. _That _is how your human half is a _strength_." Kori finished.

Mar'i looked at her mother and nodded in muted astonishment. "…So, do _all _humans possess this '_willpower_,' or do only—" Mar'i started, and her mother interrupted her once again.

"Not many humans even knew of the existence of other races until recently, and even now, their governments tend to keep it secret from them general public, but those who _do know_, they are the ones who _truly _demonstrate the near-limitless capabilities of the human race." Koriand'r responded, smiling as she did so. Mar'i looked up at her mother.

"…Like dad?" she asked with a hint of burning intrigue.

Kori smiled even wider. "Yes. _Exactly _like your father." she responded, smiling.

Mar'i smiled as well. "…_Mom_…?..." she asked softly.

"…_Yes_?" Kori responded.

"Will you tell me about him?" she asked. Kori looked at her daughter with a serious and solemn expression, and she eventually gave in and nodded.

Mar'i smiled at the prospect, and she peacefully rested her head on her mother's shoulder as the two sat down on the edge of the balcony, their breathing _finally _beginning to normalize.

Koriand'r began to tell her daughter the many stories, accounts, and tales of the legendary human: _Richard John Grayson_, Mar'i's father.

He was the human who stared an inter-dimensional demon straight in the face and wavered not once. He was the human who earned the respect and authority of so many other extraterrestrial species of beings. He was the human who had saved not only his own home planet, but _many others_, as well. He was the human who had six alter-egos, and each was just as great as the last. He was the human who had founded the original "_Teen Titans_." He was the human who had stared the fear-feeding beast, parallax, straight in the face and showed absolutely no fear, allowing the beast no pleasure in feeding on him. He had been one of the _few _beings to _ever _wield a yellow power ring of _fear_, and truly _control_, or master it, as his own control and mastery of fear was legendary—almost as legendary as his father. He was the human who was known by so many names, but across the universe, was known as a _savior_, and as a _hero._ He was Robin. He was Red-X. He was Renegade. He was Nightwing. He was Batman. He was Dick Grayson. He was a light in the darkness, and now more than ever, the world _needed _a light in the darkness.

Mar'i smiled at the fact that she was the product of two such great heroes, and she hoped that one day she would meet her father. She hoped that one day, she meet the light that had brightened not only her mother's life, but now Mar'i's life as well.

**A/N: Hmmm… …Did I go overboard of the whole "Dick, The Legend," thing? …Oh, well… …He IS A LEGEND! …Just look at all of the things he did! …Anyways, ALL of my OC Heroes have been introduced. What do you guys think? Any thoughts, predictions, favorites? Do you think that you might have a favorite? If so, then who? What do you think of my "Dark-And-Deep," writing style? Please let me know! Please R&R! I respect reviews, and the more I receive, the faster I update! Stay tuned for the next update!**


	6. Rings, Rules, and Reinforcements

**Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics, or anything associated with said franchise.**

**Accolades/Appreciation: THANKS FOR THE FEEDBACK! I truly appreciate each and every comment, message, and review that I get on each and every one of my stories, and I take each and every comment into account when creating and crafting a new chapter.**

**Author Announcement(s): Anyways, just for clarification, the following events in the following chapter take place DIRECTLY AFTER the events in the PREVIOUS CHAPTER happened, and the events in the previous chapter happened DIRECTLY AFTER the chapter RIGHT BEFORE it, which happened DIRECTLY AFTER the events in CHAPTER THREE! For instance, when Dick and Commissioner Cain were talking, back IN CHAPTER FOUR, it was MERE MOMENTS, BEFORE "_Shade Shifter_" confronted the three robbers in CHAPTER FIVE. Look at the times-of-the-day in the chapters, and you'll see that I have set-it-up that way, on-purpose. Another instance, would be the fact that the conversation that Terry and Dana had was MERE MOMENTS AFTER "_Shade Shifter_" confronted the three crooks, as it was still EARLY MORNING, and/or, LATE NIGHT, when Dana dropped Diana off at Terry's apartment. Also, as it was NIGHT-TIME in Cairo, Egypt, when Rex, AND the two "_Schism Siblings_," were preparing to confront the P.L.O. (Palestine Liberation Organization) terrorists, it was EARLY NIGHT-TIME in CAIRO and thus, it was LATE NIGHT-TIME, in GOTHAM CITY! Thus, the events in the chapter that you are ABOUT TO READ, happened ONLY A FEW MOMENTS AFTER the events IN CHAPTERS THREE-THROUGH-FIVE. So, in a matter of speaking, the LAST THREE CHAPTERS have JUST happened WITHIN MERE MOMENTS, and/or, MINUTES of EACH-OTHER! Just, please keep that in mind, so as to NOT get confused, because ALL of the chapters in this story are, and/or, WILL BE in CHRONOLOGICAL-ORDER (A.K.A.: "_Time-Order_"), and ANY/ALL of the characters will eventually tie-in together! Also, the lengths of the chapters will now begin to get progressively shorter, and soon they'll be about 5,000 words, on average. ...Anyways, read on my great fellow readers, and don't forget to R&R!**

**VI. Rings, Rules, and Reinforcements**

John sped through the cold Russian air, and his field of emerald energy that surrounded his body was the bright beacon of willpower that he and many others knew so well. He flew for a seemingly endless distance, and he finally spotted the landmark that he had aiming for: the mountain.

Secretly secluded within the mountain's south face was a balcony, and John knew just where this balcony led: to the interior of the mountain hideaway of the "_League of Assassins_."

John flew as fast as he could. He passively peeked behind his shoulder only momentarily, and he was relieved to see that he had lost the squad of Emerald Shadow Slayers that had been tailing him all the way from the Watch-Tower. He knew that he had only lost them for a short time, though.

They would be back on his tail again very soon. He had _very little _time to do what he needed to do. John _knew _how to lose an enemy though. If there was one thing John could do, it was _fly_. He had been trained and by Hal Jordan after all.

John quickly descended to the balcony, and he walked to the entrance located there. As soon as he reached the doorway, however, he was greeted by armed men, and they were armed with swords, and steel of any and all kinds. They were dressed in full-body black cloth with slits for their menacing and murderous eyes. They were archetypal assassins—_cold killers_.

Two of the five armed guards raised his serrated steel katana to John's throat, and the man in green didn't flinch an inch. The eyes of the assassin narrowed, and John copied the action. The guard was soon called off, however, as he lowered his weapons.

"_Enough_." called a stern, cold voice from beyond the entrance. Soon the owner of the commanding and controlling came into view—Talia Al Ghul.

The dark-haired woman looked curiously at the Green Lantern before her. She smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"Well well, if it isn't John Stewart. It is certainly is _nice _to see you. Come now gentlemen, this is no way to treat a '_guest_.'" she stated, and the assassins obliged her and sheathed their swords.

Two of the black-clad men appeared behind John, ready to '_escort_' him to the interior of the hideout. Talia began to walk to the interior of the hideaway, gesturing for the Green Lantern to follow her.

"Won't you join me, John? It _is _the reason you've come _all this way_, is it not? To catch up with '_old friends_?'" she asked curiously, as she began to—slowly but surely—lead her guards to the interior of the hideaway.

The guards began to follow her, but when the two behind the Green Lantern were forced to stop due John's immobile and inert stature, Talia quickly took note, and she swiftly and silently turned around and addressed the Green Lantern.

"It is very rude to treat a host—especially one as _kind and hospitable_ as myself—this way, John. I _insist _that you follow me. I do not wish to use _force_." she spat vehemently.

John stared, unflinchingly, right into her furiously fatal eyes. "I did come here to '_catch-up_,' with '_old friends_,' but I did _not _come to see _you_, per se." John replied.

Talia raised an eyebrow. "_Oh_? Why, John, I'm a little insulted. Well, I presume that you came to converse with my father then?" she inquired.

John shook his head slightly. "No. I came for your _son_." he responded.

Talia's eyes widened. "What? Why?" was all she could muster in response.

"I have a gift for him." John said, holding out his spare Green Lantern Power Ring. Talia looked at it, and she became even more wide-eyed.

"It chose him?" she asked skeptically.

"Not exactly…" John trailed off.

Talia raised her eyebrow once again. "I do not understand." she replied, a little more wary than before.

"The ring didn't choose him. I did." he replied.

Talia looked at him in slight puzzlement.

"Just take me to him." John said, and she nodded in agreement, escorting John to the interior of the building, and leading him directly to her son's quarters.

"He is inside." she addressed the man in green. John nodded, and she departed.

John knocked on the door, and he was surprised to see that it was unlocked and unblocked. He gently nudged the door open, and the sight beyond it was to be expected.

Damian Wayne stood off to the far side of the room—on the other side of the small but comfortable bed—and behind the small wooden dresser that acted as the only piece of furniture in the room. He was currently in front of the only window in the room, shirtless.

"…_John_…?..." Damian addressed the odd sight of one of his father's former allies.

John nodded. Damian proceeded to quickly don the back shirt that was in his hands. He pulled the shirt over his head, swiftly and skillfully covering up the many scars—although they were _well-healed _scars, which added to his intimidating and intriguing nature—and he swiftly concealed his _very well-defined _physical physique.

John took note of the way the way the scars had healed, and the nature of the injuries. Damian had obviously been through some _very intense _training, and it showed. His scars had healed nicely though—_very nicely_. It was probably the after-effects of some water from the "_Lazarus Pits_."

"It's good to see you, Damian." John addressed the man before him. Damian had been through intense training, but John wondered if it was enough. It would _have _to be.

"Yeah. Same, John. Is something wrong?" Damian questioned curiously.

John looked perplexed. "…Well, yes and no. …Actually more yes than no." the Green Lantern responded.

Damian raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" he asked cautiously, awaiting an answer that might shock and stun him, but then again, it took something _truly terrible_ to shock Damian Wayne.

John smirked and tossed Damian the spare Green Lantern Power Ring that he had been carrying. Damian caught the ring with expert and ready reflexes, and he looked at the green ring with curiosity and wonder.

Damian looked at the ring, and then back up at John. "…Did it… …_Choose _me?" he asked the Lantern in front of him.

John shook his head. "Nope. I did." he replied.

Damian looked at the older man with a clearly comical disdain. "Isn't that against the rules?" he asked skeptically.

"Screw the rules." John responded, and Damian went wide-eyed.

Green Lanterns were _notorious _for their sense of order and control. They almost _never _broke the rules. John Stewart was the _epitome_ of the lawful, archetypal, rule-following, regulatory, reasoning, Green Lantern. One thing was painfully clear: if something made John Stewart '_screw the rules_,' then it was something _big _—and _bad_.

"Did _you _just say '_screw the rules_?' Okay, what the hell is going on?" he asked, now more warningly and warily than before.

"Just put the ring on. I'll explain everything as quickly as I can. …And hurry, we don't have much time left." John responded, and Damian looked at the other man with a look of pure puzzlement, but he put the ring on nonetheless. John now had his teammate, but he wondered if even that would be enough. He hoped so.

Damian donned the ring quickly, and once he had the ring on the middle finger of his dominant right hand, he looked at John and waited for the Lantern to speak.

He did not speak, so Damian spoke first. "…_Well_…" he urged the man in Green to explain himself.

John sighed. "A large group of Shadow Slayers will be here momentarily. I need your help to defeat them." John explained, but the explanation didn't seem to help Damian in the least.

"…'_Shadow Slayers_?'" Damian questioned.

John sighed again. "They're creations of Vandal Savage. Each of the seven colors of the '_Emotional Support Spectrum_,' is a color of the visible light spectrum, and each color represents—and controls—a different, tangible emotion. When a ring-bearer is chosen by a power ring of that color, it was because the potential and prospective owner of the ring has demonstrated an _immense_ use, possession, and control over the emotion that the ring used to wield its power. For instance, Green Lanterns need to have _immense _control and use of their own _willpower _in order to chosen by a Green Lantern Power Ring, because that is our emotion. At the _far _end of the spectrum, is the '_Red Lantern Corps_,' whose members are fueled by the emotion of _rage_, and on the other extreme of the spectrum, are the '_Star Sapphires_,' who are fueled by _love_. In the _direct middle _of the original emotion spectrum is the color green," John gestured to his own Green Lantern Power Ring, "whose main emotion is _willpower_, and whose Green Lanterns Corps are supposed to keep the other Lantern Corps in check." John explained, and Damian nodded in understanding. John then continued.

"Unfortunately, Savage was able to take this emotion spectrum, and _literally_, flip it. In this new, _destructive_, spectrum, these new colors—or _abscesses_, as Savage called them, as they truly are the _absence _of any color—had the _exact opposite_ effect as their corresponding original color had in the original emotion spectrum. The most useful—useful to Vandal Savage anyways—of these new _abscesses_, was the _abscess _of _green_, which allowed the user of an emerald _abscess_ ring, to enforce their _own _willpower, _over _others desires and demands. Savage's ideal goal is to merge all of the new abscess colors into one, immensely powerful ring, and thus outfit this ring, either on himself, or on his most-trusted and most well-trained Hero Hunter. As far as I know, he has not yet completed this task, and if I have my way, he _never _will. Savage has created many Hero Hunters, who are now outfitted with green abscess power rings, and as such, they are now his minions. Their first task was test their limits and abilities in battle against _us_, the Green Lantern Corps. Thus, following Savage's orders, they went to do battle with the Green Lantern Corps. The results were disastrous. The aftermath had the central city of Planet Oa—the main refuge for the Green Lantern Corps—in _complete and utter _ruins. The Green Lanterns had put up much more of a fight than Savage had ever expected—hey, we _are _the Green Lantern Corps, after all—and the Green Lanterns had won the battles and fatal fights that ensued, but Savage's new soldiers had been _very _effective as well. The Green Lanterns had won the ensuing battles in the infamous '_Shadow Slayer_ _Conflicts_,' but our cost was grave and dire. Our numbers had been _drastically reduced_. Savage has named his new 'creations' '_Shadow Slayers_,' and now, a group of Emerald Shadow Slayers are on their way here _right now_." John finished, and Damian now understood everything and he processed it all with amazing speed and sense.

"…So, how am _I _supposed to help?" the former "_Demon Child_" adamantly asked the Green Lantern before him.

John smirked. "I'll need some help to fight them off. …And I had a spare ring, since Hal left the Corps—and declared that he was, and I quote, '_Done with any and all rings of any shape and size_.' So… …I had to think of someone—and _very quickly at that_—who would be able to wield the ring without any major drawbacks. …Someone who _wasn't _Hal." John clarified, looking intently at Damian.

Damian understood now, but he had a semi-serious, semi-sarcastic smirk on his face. "…So, you decided to give one of the most powerful weapons in the _universe_ to a brutal, strong, smart, swift, headstrong, psychotic, well-trained assassin?" Damian asked, looking at John with a look of apt amusement.

"As far as I'm concerned, kid, you just described your father." John said, smirking.

Damian smiled a little, but then his smile faltered as he remembered something: he _wasn't _his father. "…John, I'm _not _my father…" Damian responded, sounding slightly sobered and defeated, and ready to hand the ring back. John stopped him with a hand on Damian's ring.

"Trust me, kid. You're close enough." John said, smiling. Damian smirked once again.

"…Alright, so how does this work, exactly? I thought that, as you said, one had to be _chosen _by the ring, in order to use it." Damian questioned, and John nodded slightly.

"…In a matter of speaking, yes. …_However_, one _can _use the ring, whenever, and however he or she wishes, even _without _being chosen. There are _obvious _downsides to using the ring in this way, though." John explained.

"Like what?" the blue-eyed man questioned, his intelligent ice-cold eyes looking at John with intent.

"The user of a Power Ring—of _any color_—who has _not _been chosen, can _only _use the ring for _one _battery charge—or in other words, it's a '_one-time-use_' for a non-chosen user." the Lantern explained, and Damian nodded. John continued.

"Also, the power output of the ring is _severely_ _limited _to a user of the ring, who has _not been chosen_. In laymen's terms, you can _only _do _half _of what a normal Green Lantern can accomplish. On the upside though, this means that, because your power _output _will be less, your power _input _will also be less. This means that the _immense _force and fatigue that a normal Green Lantern has to put on his or her mind and body to control and wield the ring, will not apply to you. You will still have a _significant _amount of strain put on your body and mind—a _very significant _amount of strain—but it would not be as demanding as the strain put on the average Green Lantern." John finished, and Damian nodded once again.

The assassin smirked. "John, I'm pretty sure that I can handle the '_strain_.' I am well-trained, _extremely physically fit_ assassin, who has been breed, born, and trained since birth to withstand almost _anything_. I'm pretty sure that this little ring isn't anything I can't handle." he said, smirking in cocky way, and gesturing to the ring on his finger

"I hope so, kid. Just don't be so cocky. _All _the newbie Lanterns say that, and then after their first time using the ring, they pass out. Even though it is only _half _of the strain as the average Green Lantern, it will still be _very great_. Just don't take it so light-heartedly." John warned, and Damian nodded.

"…Anything else?" Damian questioned.

John nodded with a slight smirk. "Yeah. _Only official _Green Lanterns get a uniform. Sorry." John said, still smirking.

Damian chuckled slightly. "Don't worry about it. Green's not my color anyways. I'm more into black and red." the man responded, giving the experienced Lantern a cocky grin. John nodded.

"The Guardians won't put you on suspension for this, will they?" Damian questioned, and John shrugged.

"Probably, but hey, it _is _an emergency." he replied, shrugging slightly.

"Very well then. Alright, so give me a quick run-down of the abilities at the disposal of a Green Lantern." Damian commanded, and John nodded.

"Flight. That's a given." the Lantern explained. Damian nodded.

"Construct creation. If you can imagine it, you can create it. As long as your willpower and the _physical and mental _limits of your body allow you to sustain your constructs, they should be able to hold-up against almost anything. Now, remember, you have _only half _of the energy input and output as the average Green Lantern, so this might affect your ability to create and contort constructs." John said, and Damian nodded again.

"…And super strength, correct?" Damian questioned with a deviously demented grin.

John thought for a moment. "Yes. But, not '_super strength_' in the traditional sense. A Lantern must surround himself with a field of '_Emerald Energy_,' in order to gain enhanced speed, strength, or agility. The _force _of this field of emerald energy is what you can control, _not _your actual strength. For instance, if you hit an enemy with a field of emerald energy around your own body, then the force of the hit will be compounded. Thus, the limit of the force of the hit you deliver to an enemy will be the limit of your own willpower—your willpower, and _also_ how much _strain_ and strength your body can withstand, as putting _too much _force into an attack could leave you winded and out of stamina or energy." he answered Damian.

"That same concept applies to _lifting _objects as well, correct?" Damian asked, and John nodded.

"How much time do we have?" he asked, and John sighed.

"Not much, kid." was all he responded with.

"We should take action to warn my mother and grandfather. They may be able to assist us. The rings have a weakness towards wood, do they not?" he asked, and John shook his head.

"No. _Only _Alan Scott's ring had that weakness. His ring was _given _that weakness by the Guardians because the _last owner _of Scott's ring was a power-hungry tyrant who had tried to rule the Earth. Thus, because he had tried to rule _ancient _Earth—and, at the time, most human weapons were made of wood—the Guardians made his ring vulnerable to wood, so that the human armies could stop him." John explained.

Damian looked sour. He was sure that he had a plan in action. The League had a perfect plethora of wooden weapons, but John had just shot down his only attempt at a battle strategy. "There must be some way that they can assist us." Damian said. John looked up at the boy, and he smiled.

"There is." he responded, and before Damian could inquire further, John was off, down the hall, heading towards the main hall of the hideout. Damian rolled his eyes, and he began to follow the Lantern, hoping that his mother, grandfather, or the '_White Ghost_,' didn't kill him, before he explained himself. His family wasn't the nicest of people.

* * *

><p>Chaos was at the northern entrance to the settlement in no time. The settlement had small buildings littered throughout it, and it had only four points of entry—the four points that the two twins had targeted in their plan of attack.<p>

Each entrance to the sandy little dry desert settlement was between a large archway, and the archways apparently served to be some sort of architectural landmark. Chaos felt somewhat guilty at the thought that he was going to have to destroy those arches, but he quickly shook it off. He stood in front of the small group of armed guards that waited there, and he quickly grabbed their attention. The boy with the red-and-white bulls-eye target painted on his well-defined chest came to a stop in front of the guards, and he called out to them, through his bold blue bandana-mask.

"Hey guys. I thought I heard a little girl screaming over here. I thought you might've, y'know, been torturing her or something. …But, obviously, it was just your silly sex games. My bad, guys. Carry on, '_gentle_' men." Chaos said, chuckling in an obvious way.

The men were instantly and adamantly angered, and they opened fire on the boy. Chaos was quicker than the bullets though. The boy left a noticeable blue streak as he sped away from the incoming bullets. He was on the other side of the entrance arch, and he had the terrorists' attentions once again.

"Oh, c'mon! You can do better that! I mean, I have a _target _painted on my chest! …Or do you guys learn to shoot, like how you learn to fly? Y'know what I mean by that right? Y'know, how you guys learn to fly a plane, but don't learn to land one. Do you learn to shoot a gun, but not to aim one as well?" he asked, the guards' tempers flared, and they opened fire again, as Chaos swiftly and surely dodged the incoming barrage of bullets once again.

The blue streak was now traveling fast—_very fast_—but he was running slow enough for the terrorists to track his potential path-of-travel, and Chaos led their barrage of bullets right to the second entrance that he had been assigned to distract: the east entrance. Chaos slowed down, just as the fatal fire of bullets from the guards at the northern entrance starting whizzing by the guards at the east entrance.

The guards there at the east entrance gathered at their own weapons, and they began to return fire at the source of the bullets heading straight for them. In the darkness, the two groups of guards did not see each other and could not correctly identify the other, and Chaos knew this. His sister's plan had eagerly exploited this fact.

The two groups became very discombobulated, and they were soon confounded and confused. Chaos took advantage of this. He sped forward, and using his serious boost in speed, he launched himself into the air. Just as he was directly between the two groups that were exchanging fire, his blue eyes grew an even darker shade of deep blazing blue, and his fists followed a similar pattern, as they burned with a bold blue aura.

Chaos used his telekinesis, and the two stone arch structures around the two groups that were returning fire collapsed, and the debris trapped and immobilized _all _of the stupidly shooting terrorists. Chaos landed directly between the two groups, and he smirked, but he was also trying to catch his breath.

Using his telekinesis put a serious_ physical_ strain on his body. Likewise, using her own telekinesis put a serious_ mental_ strain on Control's mind. They used their telekinesis often, and the more they used their telekinesis, the more apt and adapted they became to the severe strain that accompanied their telekinesis, but it was still a big strain nonetheless.

Just as Chaos had started to catch his breath, the two remaining groups of guards at the other two entrances turned their bodies and attentions to the direction of the previous commotions, and they prepared to open fire.

Just before they could, however, a red steak similar to her brother's own blue trail zoomed to, through, in, and out of the two remaining groups of terrorists, and they promptly found themselves disarmed, knocked out, or otherwise disabled, with a devastating and debilitating bullet wound in their legs, forcing them to remain on the ground. While the men saw only a red streak, Control saw _everything _in real true-time.

The girl ran, with expert speed, skill, and agility through the two groups of bloodthirsty terrorists, and she made quick work of them. The terrorists seemed to have stopped completely, but she knew better. She had only slowed them down enough for her to accurately accomplish her task. There were bullets in the air—some aimed at her, some aimed at her brother. She found each of the bullets, and quickly and quietly located and redirected each of those bullets. She ran past one bullet, seemingly frozen in the air, and flicked it back in the opposite direction that it had come from; the bullet went flying towards and into the leg of the nearest gunman.

He was crippled, and he would soon fall to the ground, unable to move, but the effects of the wound would not take effect until her flash freeze had worn off. She continued her trek to and through the terrorists, and throughout the two groups of guards—at the western and southern entrances—and she was soon completed with her tasks.

She resumed normal speed, and all of the men that she had injured, incapacitated, or otherwise rendered inert, fell to the ground, unable to move, and barely able to speak. All the men had seen was a red flash too quick for their eyes to perceive, but Control had experienced _everything_ in a slow-moving panorama of attacks.

She stopped in the middle of the two former groups of conscious gunmen, and she was directly across from her brother, who had finally caught his breath. The two twins nodded at each other, and they entered the settlement to deal with the rest of the brutal, bloodthirsty, insurgents.

The two entered the settlement from opposite entrances, and the then they were off. A red and blue storm of speed entered the small village with amazing efficiency, energy, and effort, and they began to distract, assault, and bombard the terrorists located therein.

Rex watched from the rooftop of one of the small buildings in the settlement with amazement at the accuracy and efficiency of the twins. He scanned the settlement below him, intent on taking action himself. He wasn't one to sit out on the action.

Rex quickly identified a group of lone gunmen that the twins had either not seen, or left to deal with at later time. He assumed that it was the latter of the two options. Those two seemed to have their senses, smarts, and schemes set and laid-out in a working manner. It was unlikely that they had missed the group of terrorists that he was now observing, but regardless, he descended the rooftop, and he approached the group form the rear, staying in the shadows.

Rex pulled his hood over his head, and he was gone, racing towards the group silently and stealthily.

The dark green shadow approached the men, and he quickly grabbed and twisted the necks of the two men closest to him. He had performed the action enough times in the past to be very proficient at it. The men fell to the ground, still breathing but unconscious. Rex caught their bodies before they hit the ground, and he gently and gingerly laid their bodies on the sandy settlement floor.

The group of gunmen had not noticed that two of their men had been silently and stealthily taken out, and they continued to walk carefully and cautiously through the streets of the small settlement, always keeping their eyes peeled for these two new speedy enemies that had graced their small camp.

Rex tried his hand at the next two guards, and he successfully took them down, but he failed to rest the second one on the ground quietly, and the others heard and immediately whipped around, guns firing and flaring at the green-clad boy.

Rex swiftly sprinted away, and the quickly retreating shadow was in the dark alley beside him with terrific timing, narrowly avoiding injury from the gunfire. The three gunmen started to approach the alley where the boy had disappeared into, only to be confronted by their two new enemies.

Chaos and Control appeared behind the insurgents and the gunmen slowly but surely turned around—all of the gunmen, _except one _gunman, who swiftly and stealthily slipped in the dark alley that Rex had just disappeared into. Neither Chaos, nor Control noticed this.

The two gunmen started shaking and they promptly dropped their Ak-47s. They raised their hands in the air, but they were far too afraid to speak.

Both of the twins smirked, and although no one could _see _their facial expressions, both of the siblings _knew _that the other was smirking.

"Sorry. We're not taking prisoners today." they both said in unison, and the blue-eyed boy and pink-haired girl proceeded to decisively drop the corresponding insurgent that each of them had targeted.

Chaos was about to utter some snide and sarcastic statement when the last gunmen—the one who had escaped their sights—came out of the shadows, and he attacked Control.

He sprayed her with bullets, and she had no time so use her flash freeze, so she tried her best to dodge the incoming projectiles as best she could at her normal speed. She readily rolled along the desert floor, and although she was quick, one of the bullets went right through her left leg.

The pain was excruciating, but she didn't make a sound as she fell to the ground. The girl was on the ground, and she was sure that bullet had not only bore a hole in her leg, but had also broken her leg as well, as it had passed right through her bone. The man approached the wounded girl on the ground—the girl who was on all four of her limbs—and before he could even raise his weapon, Control spun up and around, swinging her other undamaged leg at her attackers face, and the kick was a _strong _one.

This all happened in a matter of moments, not enough time for even Chaos to react. It sent the man flying back into the alley, but before her brother could finish him off—and just as the man was aiming his weapon at Control—the gunman was snatched deeper into the dark alleyway by a pair of green-clad arms.

The sounds of the man being assaulted and losing consciousness were heard from the alleyway. Chaos was at his sister's side in an instant. She refused his help, though, as she usually did.

Her eyes and hands glowed a deep pink, and she used her telekinesis to repair her wounded leg, as she _painfully _snapped the bones and vessels back into place. It was _always _painful when she healed herself.

Her brother had a much less painful way of tending to injuries. He simply sped up his own metabolisms, thus speeding up the rate at which new cells, tissues, and organs formed, which healed almost _any _injury very quickly, effectively, and efficiently—so long as he had the energy, effort, and ability to _withstand _the serious physical strain that it put on his body, which was _not _always the case.

Control couldn't speed up her own metabolisms, so she relied on her telekinesis to heal her. Her brother often offered to help her, by using his own abilities to speed up her metabolisms like his own, but she _always _refused. She preferred to do things herself, even if it hurt beyond belief—which it _always _did.

Chaos cringed slightly as his sister's bones could be heard painfully cracking back into place, and her wounds closed up. Control slowly rose from the ground, and her only release of the intense pain that she felt was a deep sigh.

She was feeling a little lightheaded—either from the slight loss of blood, or from the _immense mental_ strain that using her telekinesis had put on her mind. Soon her mind cleared though, and she refocused.

"You okay?" Chaos asked his sister, and she nodded, but she never looked at him. She kept her eyes focused on the alleyway where the lone gunman had "disappeared."

She zoomed towards the alley, and her red streak was gone in a second. Her brother was behind her in the next second.

He entered the alley, and he found his sister with her hands around the throat of the green-clad teenager. She had a crazed, vicious, violent look in her pink eyes. She looked like she might just kill him.

"Start talking." she ordered the teen whom she had never met in a fiery fierce voice, but the boy did not flinch. He was either too stupid—or too stunned and _shocked_—to know when he should be afraid, or he was _very good_ at controlling his expressions and emotions. It looked like it was the latter option.

His emerald eyes stared deep into her pink ones, and he noticed something odd—something _very odd_. The girl that was about to kill him was…_pretty_.

* * *

><p>The men held their hostages in the center of the of the floor, the Hong Kong Police Department fifty stories below them, ordering them to surrender and give-up their hostages. The group of twenty men in total were about to have their party crashed by a bat and an alien.<p>

Two batarangs came flying in to view, and they knocked the guns out of two of the men's hands. The next moment, a durable, strong, solid, and serrated whip caught the feet of three men who were lined up perfectly, and they were promptly and perfectly taken to the ground—and their legs were sliced so they could not stand back up.

Then, the owner of the batarangs and the whip appeared onto the floor with the hostages. The next second a slender shadowy figure dressed in an armored black Batsuit dropped into view, as she dropped from the floor above, effectively crushing the jawbone of the two armed men closest to her, using her two feet as blatant blunt-force weapons.

Two more men fell to the ground, unconscious, and the rest of the men turned their attention to their new adversary, seemingly forgetting about their hostages or the police below them.

"Sorry for the rude entrance, boys. But, if you had invited me, then I wouldn't have to crash this party, now would I?" she asked the stunned, silenced, and angered men before her.

The men opened fire on her, and in that second, she was gone, disappearing in a shadowy blink.

Using the shadows, she remained silent and stealthy, until she reappeared behind a group of three men, and with one swift and strong swing, she knocked them all unconscious. The remaining men opened fire on her again, and again she was gone.

"Gāisǐ de hēi biānfú! (_Damn Black Bat!_) Tā huì huǐle yīqiè! (_She will ruin everything!_)" one of the men, who was still standing, yelled out. He appeared to be the leader of the group, as the next words out of his mouth were orders, and his men followed them without hesitation.

"Shìfàng dúyè xīdú zhě! (_Release the Venom addicts!_)" he ordered, and his men unlocked and opened three cages that had been sitting in the shadows of the damp floor of the building.

Three creatures—all of _immense _size and shape, with _bulging massive _muscles, and a lividly lethal look in their eyes—charged out of their cages, and just as the Black Bat reappeared behind two more men and knocked them unconscious, the three creatures found their new target. The three creatures charged at the hero, and she sighed—_very deeply_

"…Sometimes, I really hate my job." she complained, charging the three beasts, and performing an aerial flip, flawlessly, over the mighty mutated creatures.

She avoided the brunt of their attack, but she did not avoid all of it, as one of the creatures reached up and slashed at her with one of its three metallic and steely, sharpened claws on its right hand. One of the claws caught Black Bat on the lower left side of her lowest leg—her left leg—and it ripped away some of her costume's fabric, and created a somewhat shallow gash in her skin.

Black Bat landed on the other side of her enemies, and they were somewhat disoriented as they took a very long time to turn around. Black Bat took this brief break in the battle to inspect her injury. It wasn't very serious, or very deep.

She was thankful for the Kevlar padding that Cain had installed in the suit. She might have lost her leg, if not for the added armor. The three beasts finally turned around, and Black Bat finally took notice of just how _severely mutated _these poor creatures were.

They each had three deformed—albeit _very strong and sturdy_—claws on their dominant right hand, and they had a slightly enlarged left had for swatting down enemies. They all still looked _very human_, and it was possible that, through procedures, they could be normal again.

Stephanie silently hoped that she was right about that and these creatures could be saved, but she did not have any time to worry about that right now. She had to worry about surviving and stopping these men, even if that meant hurting these poor creatures. She sighed. She wasn't even sure that she _could _hurt them. She would have to try though.

Black Bat popped her suit's integrated unbreakable Kryptonite claws, and she was preparing to charge her superhuman foes, when her saving grace arrived just in time.

Sam hurtled through the east wall of the floor, and she swept all three of the creatures away with her, taking them down to the street below to finish the fight. Stephanie's mask concealed it, but she was smirking. She silently stated that she would have to thank her little Kryptonian friend later.

Black Bat turned her attention back to the stunned and shocked armed men before her and she charged them. The men quickly regained their composure and they opened fire on her, but she just continued to sprint at them.

One of the creatures landed—_hard_—and he broke the fall of the others. Unfortunately for him, though, the fifty story drop crushed and crippled him, regardless of the fact that he was a super strong metahuman mutant.

This left only two creatures for Sam to battle with. The other two creatures quickly got to their feet, and they looked up at their attacker—who was currently airborne—and they growled and gnawed at the air ferociously. Their snarls shattered some glass and concrete around them, but Sam seemed unnerved and unmoved. She quickly took note of their claws. She would have to avoid them. Her human half affected her more than most human-hybrid Kryptonians.

Unlike her brother, sharp objects—only if they were sharp _enough_—could actually penetrate her skin. Although her human half made her a _little _less durable, she could still sustain the heaviest of blows and get right back up, if they were _blunt force _blows.

A full-force hit from Darkseid was something that she could probably potentially shake-and-shrug-off—albeit _not _easily—but it was the sharpened, serrated, and slender weapons and blades—_especially _the very sharp and unbreakable ones—that she had to worry about.

Although the enemy that had the blade still had to have enough fury and _force _to be able to deliver any damage to her with a blade. That was a difficult task in itself. Kryptonians took _a lot _of damage before anything injured them, and Sam's vulnerability to blades was no exception to this rule.

Still though, those two creatures looked like they had enough strength to deal her damage, and their claws only made that worse, so she took note of it. It was one disadvantage of being half-human. Her human half did give her one serious advantage, though.

Her human half allowed her to persevere, practice, or progress to _any level _she so desired, so long as she was willing to _push _herself to do so, and she was _always _willing to push herself.

Sam snapped back to the showdown at hand.

She descended to the ground, and the two creatures instinctively charged at her. She ducked under their incoming attacks, and she delivered a powerful punch to the stomach of one of the two, making him fall to the ground in surprise and shock.

The other creature, however, took advantage of her momentary lack-of-movement, and he swatted at her with his enlarged left hand, sending her flying backwards. She caught herself in the air, though, and just as she stopped herself her eyes found their target, she lit the creature up with a spectacular and stunning display of fireworks.

Her laser vision burned the creature's very human skin and it whined as his flesh singed and stung, while Sam flew in and delivered the final blow to the creature, rendering him unconscious.

Sam smirked as she looked at her three defeated enemies. She looked up just in time to see a screaming oriental man flying off the fiftieth floor of the building.

Sam flew up and caught the man, and he then proceeded to pass out from his extreme excitement and adrenaline rush. She flew the man back up to the fiftieth floor of the building in front of her, and she was somewhat surprised to see the remainder of the Chinese mafia subdued, and otherwise unconscious, and the hostages untied and rushing down the stairs—while Black Bat simply stood there, waiting for her Kryptonian friend to land on the floor.

"…Well, you certainly work fast…" Sam trailed off, impressed at Stephanie's work.

"So do you." the Bat responded, indicating the unconscious man in Sam's arms.

Sam smirked. "He could have died, you know." she retorted.

"Nah. I knew you'd catch him." Black Bat responded.

Sam chuckled slightly. "What do I do with him?" Sam asked, gesturing to the unconscious man in her arms.

"Leave him. The cops will be here in a second, and I'm tired. Let's head home." Black Bat responded, and Sam nodded.

"I don't suppose you have a cool ride with you, do you?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Nope. Cain let me take the suit, not the batmobile, or for that matter, the '_Bat-Bike_' either." the Bat responded.

Sam frowned. "So, then, how did you get _here_?" she questioned the masked superhero, gesturing to the large unfinished building that they were currently standing in.

Black Bat shrugged. "I walked." she replied.

Sam sighed. "So, I guess I'm flying you home?" she asked, and the Bat nodded.

Sam sighed, but she knew there was no arguing it. The flying girl with the domino mask carried the hero Black Bat back to their apartment on the upper west side of Hong Kong, all the while, the two were trying to avoid suspicious eyes, and surprisingly, they succeeded.

Sam and Steph crawled through their apartment's second-story window, laughing the entire time. The two quickly rushed to their rooms, and changed into their civilian clothes, before heading downstairs to join Jon.

"…And then I just see this guy falling out of the sky, out of _nowhere_! …And, Steph is just like: '_Nah, I knew you'd catch him_.'" Sam finished telling her story between bursts of short lively laughter. Jon had to chuckle at that one.

"…What are you looking at with such '_focus_?'" Steph teased, asking Jon who was currently engrossed in his laptop's computer screen. He sighed.

"Take a look." he responded, smirking.

He then turned his laptop around, and he showed his two roommates what had been occupying his attention for the past few minutes. Sam scanned the screen intently, and Steph had to lay a hand on Jon's hand to get a better view, and this slight and silent physical contact made Jon blush slightly.

At the sight of this, Stephanie quickly removed her hand and turned away, slightly whipping her blonde hair across Sam's face as she did so. Steph was now focusing intensely on the computer screen, but there was also a noticeable amount blush creeping onto her cheeks as well.

Sam saw this transpire, and she just rolled her eyes. '_Grown adults, and they're still acting like teenagers._' Sam thought to herself, smiling at the slight redness in both of their cheeks.

Sam scanned the screen, and she found what her brother was looking at. It was video that had just been posted, and the title read: "_Black Bat and Steel Savior Save the Night in Downtown Hong Kong_." While Steph and Jon were watching the video of two females' heroic deeds, Sam just stared at the title of the video.

Sam smirked. She liked the title. Her father used to be the "_Man of Steel_." Her smirk soon turned into a smile. She liked the name "_Steel Savior_." It had a ring to it. Samantha Lane was Steel Savior.

**A/N: Oh, Wally West. You live on even through death. Haha. But, then again, I plan to, and/or, WILL make ANY/ALL of the heroes who have died, and/or, WILL die (*DON DON DON*) be remembered VERY WELL, and they WILL LIVE-ON! Trust me! …Anyways, what did you guys think? Chapters are going to get WAAAAY SHORTER, AND, WAAAAY MORE READABLE, from this point on. Promise. Anyways, please R&R. Stay tuned for next update.**


	7. Legendary Legacies

**Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics, or anything associated with said franchise.**

**_Author Apologies(s): _****PLEASE, read ANY AND ALL of the following BOLDED text! Wow. Well, first of all, it has been a long time. I am so very sorry for the ridiculously-late response/update. I was caught-up with real-life, for a while (Baseball, Track-And-Field, Graduation, College Finalizations, Etc.), and my FIRST thought was to keep-track-of, and respond to any and all of the outstanding message-conversations that I have on this here site—and update any and all of my existing FanFictions. However, just as I got back on this site, I realized something: I have been reviewing/revising/re-writing my FanFictions, BEFORE I upload/update them, but it was NEVER ANYWHERE CLOSE to how much I NEEDED To review/revise/re-write them! ...So, I STARTED reviewing, revising, and rewriting ANY AND ALL of my FanFictions, and just when I was about HALF-WAY through doing that (I Have OVER 200,00 WORDS Published/Posted On This Godforsaken Site! Do You Know How LOOOOOONG That Takes To Review/Revise/Rewrite?! VERY LONG!), and about to respond to any and all of my messages, when my life fell apart—literally.**

**Between psychotic breaks, episodic events, and metal crazes, (All Of Which Were Caused By My Life, That Just Happened To Turn Super-Sucky), I was, well, incapacitated.**

**You don't need an excuse. But, you do deserve one.**

**The good news (For EVERYONE) is the following. Writing my OWN ORIGINAL Books-Series (There Are FOUR, SEPARATE, UN-Related, Book-Series, And Hopefully, I Will Have A Literary Agent/Publishing-Deal, In A Year, OR Two! …On The SLIM Chances That Is DOES Actually Occur, Or Happen…), looking for agents, looking-into-querying, and FAN-FICTION have become my outlet! ...So, my depressing life will make for AWESOME FanFiction, with HAPPY undertones (But, My Stories/FanFictions Will STILL Have Character-Deaths [Well, SOME], Gore, Blood [NOT TOO Much, Though], Romance, And NO OOC-Ness, OR Mary-Sues, Mind-You!).**

**I have JUST finished-up reviewing/revising/rewriting my CURRENTLY-POSTED chapters of any and all Fan Fictions, and today is the day that I shall be updating ANY AND ALL of my FanFictions. And, also, today is also the day, that I will-be starting three NEW FanFictions, and they will be the LAST FanFictions that I will EVER start—unless, I decide to do a cross-over, between my DC-Comics-FanFiction, and my MARVEL-Comics-FanFiction (BOTH, The MARVEL-FanFiction, AND, The DC-Fan Fiction, Features A Teenage, Next-Gen-Hero-Team, So Having Them Team-Up In A Cross-Over Would Be Kind-Of Cool. …But, IF I Do That Cross-Over, Then That Definitely Would Be The LAST Fan Fiction That I EVER START!)! For a timeline of future updates you should know this: "_I Will NOT Cancel ANY Of My FanFictions!_" I WILL FINISH THEM ALL! …If you wish to have a better idea of how often updates will be coming, though, I have FOUR FanFictions that take precedent over my others, and as such, those four will probably be updated faster than others. You should all note, however, that I WILL be updating ANY AND ALL of my FanFictions! However, I am unsure, as to how long each update will take, so PLEASE HAVE PATIENCE! So, to keep-up with the updates, PLEASE, subscribe to me/my-story, favorite me/my-story, or message me and ask me to personally message you whenever I DO update, and I will HAPPILY do so!**

**_Author Advertisement(s): _****That's right. Ads. I have TWELVE—Count-'Em, TWELVE—FanFictions On here, that will ALL end-up, being OVER 100K-Words, and they will ALL be updated REGULARLY—HOPEFULLY—from this point-on. …So, if you happen to read in any of the OTHER FanFic FanDoms, that I write for, then, PLEASE, by all means, do NOT hesitate to check-out some of my OTHER FanFictions! Check-out my profile for more information (And Some Awesome Quotes, As Well!), and MESSAGE ME, if you have ANY questions, or just want to chat! I, contrary to popular belief, LOVE to hear from fellow FanFiction-Readers, as-well-as, my own readers! …Also, it should be noted, that ANY AND ALL of my Comic-Based-FanFictions, are VERY EASY to understand, and they are MADE for EVEN a NOVICE/NON-Comics-Reader, to be able to understand VERY EASILY, and things are explained VERY clearly in these above-mentioned Comic-Based-FanFictions, of my own creation.**

**_Important Information: _****This FanFiction, is-based-on/takes-place-in, the FUTURE, of The "MAIN-DC-Universe," (ONE, Of MANY Universes, In "The DC-MultiVerse").**

**_Accolades/Appreciation:_**** Thanks for ANY/ALL of the reviews! I really appreciate them, and I take them all into account. Don't stop now, though! ONWARD!**

**VII. Legendary Legacies**

Dusan Al Ghul, better known as the White Ghost, had a serrated steel katana pressed harshly up against John Stewart's neck. Damian looked less than pleased by the fact that his uncle had a deadly weapon held against the neck of his latest ally. After Dusan had used the "_Ley Lines_" of the Earth to control and command his nephew's body—Damian's body—Damian and Dusan had not been on the best of terms.

Dusan had _possessed_ Damian, in order to give his father—Ra's Al Ghul, the grandfather of Damian—the servant and sacrifice that Ra's needed for his terrorist-based antics, which was required to complete his plan of annihilating Gotham City. Gotham City was seen, by Ra's, as the biggest pool of corruption in the world. Ra's felt that—due to his long-lifespan, his intelligence, and his immense training and willpower—he had _earned _the right to deem what was "_necessary_," or "_right_," for the people of Earth, and he saw that "destroying corruption," was the best way to do what was "_right_."

The Lazarus Pits had given his family the added advantage of increased longevity and reparative recovery from almost _any _injury. The water from the Pits had a special healing component that allowed those completely submerged—in any one of the many Lazarus Pits around the world—to regain full fitness, an amazingly rebuilt body and physical form, and return with complete physical prowess.

The pits used their locations as the perfect _power points_—the points of intersection of the "_Eternal Energy_," that surrounded Planet Earth—to invigorate _anyone _that entered a Lazarus Pit with a new, rejuvenated, and powerful physical form. However, even though the pits had the energy and life-force needed to resurrect beings, it did _not _have the "_spark_" that it needed to rejuvenate the being's _soul_.

As such, the pits took this "spark," from the being—the being that was about to be resurrected or completely healed by the Lazarus Pit in question. However, there was a significant downside to this. The "spark" that the pits took from the person that it was about to heal—although it restored the being to physical perfection—drained a large amount of the being's _mental _purity; it drained their sanity. Ra's, having already deemed himself insane before he first used the pits in ancient Arabia, saw no bad after-effects of using the pits. Thus, Ra's was the first human to ever use a Lazarus Pit, and as such, lose a large amount of his sanity—although he gained a _large _amount of physical prowess and intelligence in return.

After centuries and centuries of traveling, learning, training, teaching, and tempering, Ra's regained a large portion of his sanity, but he still believed that the human race to _impure _to continue to exist in the way it did. Thus, Ra's looked into "_correcting_" the human race, and as such, he was met with an enemy that had matched him in _every _possible way. This new enemy prevented _every_ major attack that Ra's had planned. This new enemy of Ra's matched his physical prowess, his genius-level intelligence, and even his will and determination. This new enemy of Ra's Al Ghul was none other than Bruce Wayne—the original Batman.

Ra's respect for his new foe outweighed his hatred for him, and he sought after Batman—whose identity he quickly deduced—to marry and procreate with his equally well-trained and intelligent daughter, Talia Al Ghul. Batman obviously refused, but he quickly found himself oddly attracted to Talia. Eventually, a one-night-stand led to the creation—in a test-tube—and birth of the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul, Damian Al Ghul—later renamed Damian Wayne. Bruce did not know of the existence of his son, until Damian was dropped off on Bruce's front steps many years later, after Damian had spent years upon years training and learning under his mother and grandfather.

That was so very long ago, though. Damian now had the respect of his grandfather, his uncle, his aunt—although she was dead—and of his brothers. Of course, Damian's aunt, Nyssa Al Ghul, was deceased, just as a number of his family members were deceased, due to their Hero Hunters' actions. Fortunately, though, every one of Damian's family members that had died in the Hero Hunting had taken his or her Hunter with them.

Due to the large amount of members of the League that had been eliminated, they were unable to use Lazarus Pits to bring them back, as there were too many souls to revive. This was a sad and tremendous loss for Damian, and he had taken it hard—especially after he had blamed himself for not being there when the Hero Hunting had happened.

Instead, Damian was with Rose. Though, the fact of the matter remained that, had he not been back-to-back with Rose, he would most-likely have died in the Hero Hunting. The Lazarus Pits could not fix those losses that his family had endured, as there were too many people to restore, and soon the _time limits_—the time before the body could _not _be restored—expired on _all _of those that had perished in the Hero Hunting.

Still, though a _large _number of the problems within Damian's family had been alleviated and fixed, or otherwise corrected, by the Lazarus Pits. After Dusan's attempt to possess Damian's body, there was some serious tension between the two. However, after Damian defeated his uncle in his preliminary training—upon Damian's return to the League of Assassins, which was the beginning of his twelve-year-long training—Dusan's respect for his nephew skyrocketed. Although he was silent regarding his sentiments towards Damian, the demon child _knew _that his uncle had accepted him as his grandfather had accepted him—as the next heir to the leadership of the League of Assassins.

That was a position that Dusan wanted very much, and he was always willing to go very far—even so far, as to _die_—for the title, and for his father's respect. Of course, insanity was hereditary in this family, but his mother's side was not the only side of his family that had the insanity gene. Bruce had been well to pass on his paranoia and mistrust to _all _of his sons. Thus, Jason Todd's slightly psychotic outlook on the world, after having been brought back with a Lazarus Pit, was not _entirely _blamed on the pit's side-effects.

Damian stood in the hideout's central room, watching his uncle, Dusan Al Ghul, with a look that screamed murder. Dusan still had his blade on John's neck, and he did not look like he was testing John. He looked like he was going to _kill _him. However, the Green Lantern simply returned Dusan's glare, and neither man seemed to be willing to give the other any satisfaction by backing down.

John had just finished explaining the entire situation to Ra's, and his family of assassins. Damian was there to ensure that no one reacted in any rash manner, and Dusan was doing just that in his opinion. Dusan questioned John's truthfulness, and after Damian personally vouched for him, Dusan questioned how they could be of assistance—and also why they should even assist the Green Lantern that had brought this threat to their doorstep. John had, naturally, retorted with a wisecracking comeback, and then Dusan's blade had found its way to John's neck—and it had not moved an inch since then.

Damian shot Dusan a cold look, and Dusan responded with an equally cold look, although Dusan's look was aimed at the black man dressed in green. Damian looked like he was about to kill his uncle…_again_.

"Dusan, enough." the man commanded his uncle. Dusan looked over at Damian, and he nodded loyally, as he sheathed his katana in its case.

John gave Damian a quick look, and he nodded in thanks. Damian returned the favor.

Ra's was the next to move. He was sitting in his ornate chair that leaned up against the northern wall of the room. Ra's rose from his chair, and he approached the Lantern.

Ra's was a few feet from the Lantern before he stopped moving towards him, and he finally spoke.

"How can we assist you in repelling this enemy?" he asked the Lantern.

John nodded and he responded, "The shadow slayers do _not _have a weakness towards wood. However, there is a way that your weapons can harm them." he explained, and Ra's raised an eyebrow.

"How so?" he asked, and John was quick to respond.

John pointed his ring to an empty area of the room, and an emerald beam of energy shot out from his ring, quickly solidifying into a see-through green construct; the construct was a transparent field of emerald energy.

"It _is _possible—_very _possible—to harm them with ordinary blades and weapons. However, harming the slayers, while using _ordinary _weapons would require _great _strength and energy to be able to break through the field of emerald energy that surrounds the shadow slayers—an amount of strength and energy that is well _out _of the reach of the human race. But there is another way. Due to the fact that the shadow slayers use emerald energy—although it is a _warped and twisted _version of that energy—the only thing that will _undoubtedly _harm them is emerald energy itself. Any other kind of colored energy from the _Emotion Spectrum_—energies such as _violet energy_, _scarlet energy_, etc.—would also inflict damage upon the shadow slayers. But emerald energy is all that we have available in the current circumstances." John explained.

John gestured to the field of emerald energy that he had just created. Ra's nodded in understanding. John continued. "Passing your weapons through this field of emerald energy will _temporarily _surround your weapons with a field of emerald energy, allowing you to inflict damage upon the shadow slayers." the Green Lantern finished, and Ra's nodded once again.

He turned around, and he gave Dusan a solid, subtle, nod. The White Ghost returned the nod, turning around and walking away, his bleach white hair whipping around as he did so. Dusan returned moments later, a group of assassins following behind him closely, all of them carrying many weapons—swords, bows-and-arrows, axes, rods, scimitars, crossbows, nunchucks, and a plethora of others.

Dusan led the assassins to the field of emerald energy that John had created earlier, and he proceeded to throw the weapons through the field. Once the weapons passed through the field, they had and emerald glow surrounding them, indicating that they were now covered in emerald energy. John nodded, and he turned his attention back to Damian.

At the moment that Damian was about to speak, a small boy appeared at his side. The boy had deep, dark, jet-black hair that was organized in a chaotic manner, and his ice-cold blue-grey eyes scanned the room in an expert manner—a manner that said that he was trained, _very well _trained. He looked to be about the age of thirteen years, no older—but perhaps a tad younger—and he had an obvious, yet subtle, muscular build. The boy stood in a loyal stance beside Damian, apparently awaiting orders. John couldn't help but notice the similarities between Damian and his younger counterpart—not in looks, but in _attitude_. Damian had _obviously _had a hand in the boy's training.

"Able, arm yourself. There is an enemy approaching, and we need _all _able-bodied assassins at-the-ready." Damian ordered, and the boy nodded obediently, as he went off to the other side of the room to acquire some weapons that were wrapped in emerald energy.

As the boy departed, John saw a display of his speed, and his agility, and he noticed how _incredible _they were. They were perhaps even better than Damian's own prowess was at his age. Still though, John had not seen the boy fight, and that was the true test of skill in the League. Damian turned around and faced his uncle, who was still preparing the weapons, and he addressed him.

"Dusan, explain the situation to him." Damian ordered his uncle, and Dusan nodded in return. Dusan turned to address the young boy that had approached him, and he began to speak to him, all the while the boy nodded in understanding and agreement.

Damian then turned back to John—and his mother, that had now made her way to the Lantern's side.

"Who's the kid?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Aaron Able. Taught and trained since birth. He can speak, read, and write, _fluently_ in seven different languages. He knows more about nuclear fission, than a physicist does. He can outlast a physically fit Olympian in _any _test of wills. He was taught to run before he could walk. He was taught to write before he could read. He was taught to _kill _before he could _wound_. We call him archetype—for _obvious _reasons. He lives up to his name." Damian explained, smirking with an unexpected hint of pride as he did so.

John nodded. "His parents?" he questioned, and Talia responded to this one.

"They were _both _members of the League, and they were both _killed _in the Hero Hunting. The boy is _our _responsibility now." Talia responded, and John nodded once again.

John now turned his head back to Damian. "_Your _protégé?" the Lantern inquired, and Damian shrugged.

"The League doesn't condone the use of the term '_protégé_,' but yes, I have spent the _most _time with him in his lessons. He is a quick learner—a _very quick _leaner—and he _always _corrects his mistakes." Damian said with, again with a hint of pride. John nodded once again.

Talia spoke next, and she addressed the Lantern. "Well, John, how is that alien wife of yours?" she questioned with a sly smile.

John looked slightly taken aback, but he quickly shook it off. He briefly wondered how Talia knew so much about him, but once again, he shook it off. "Katma is doing well." John replied.

Talia nodded, and she prodded even further. "She is still the Green Lantern for Sector 1417, I presume?" she asked inquisitively, and while John still wanted to know how she knew this information, he shook it off and answered her quickly.

"No. Katma has now gladly retired from that position. Her sector is in the small percentage of sectors that has actually _retained_ a Green Lantern to protect it. The unfortunate fact remains, though, that _not many _sectors even have Green Lanterns anymore. After the Shadow Slayer Conflicts, our numbers were _seriously _reduced. There is, however, a new Green Lantern for that specific Sector. In fact the new Green Lantern of Sector 1417 is very closely related to Katma." John said, pride dripping from his voice as he spoke of his Krougarian wife.

Talia raised an all-knowing eyebrow. "Ah, so your _daughter_ is now the Lantern for Sector 1417, I presume?" she asked, and John's mouth nearly fell open—but he stopped himself.

He simply nodded dumbly at the woman that knew _everything _about him. Talia smirked.

After a few moments, John returned his attention to his new partner. "So, how are things back in Gotham?" John asked, and Damian looked down at his shoes, and then briefly at the wooden floor, before returning his gaze to the Green Lantern before him.

"I would not know. I have not been to Gotham in quite some time." Damian said, feeling slightly downcast at the truth of his own words.

John nodded. "So, that leaves Terry and Dick over there, right? How'd they decide who gets the suit?" John questioned with a slight chuckle, and Talia now looked _very interested _in the conversation.

"My father left the cowl to Grayson. I'm _sure _that McGinnis is using it as well though. I couldn't imagine it otherwise." he replied to John's question, and the Lantern nodded in response, not wanting to go further into a topic that Damian _clearly _did not want to talk about.

Damian Wayne was one of the youngest of his father's sons, and he was the only one related to him by blood; that was what was believed, until Terry and Bruce discovered the truth about their relationship. Terry was genetically engineered, using Bruce's DNA and blood—as part of the "_Batman Beyond Project_," which was designed to make Bruce Wayne's genes live on, so Batman could, in effect, live on.

Terry had found out that he was, genetically, Bruce's biological son, only years _after _he had saved Bruce from a gang of '_Jokerz_,' and _after _Terry had become the new Batman. The information was very unnerving, for both Terry and Bruce. As a result, Terry gave up the cowl. Both men blamed themselves for never knowing of their true connection, but the truth was that it was the doing of the agency called Cadmus.

Cadmus had injected Terry's father with Bruce's DNA and genetic information, in order to allow his mother to become impregnated with a fetus that had the same physical, mental, and emotional prowess and potential as Bruce Wayne himself. Cadmus then hired an assassin to _kill _Terry's birthparents, thus sending him into a life of desperate retribution and crime fighting. The assassin never went through with it though. Because of her ties to the League of Assassins, and because of her own moral codes, she never committed the act. Regardless of this fact though, Terry's father had still been killed. Terry had still met Bruce. Bruce had still trained Terry. Moreover, Terry had still become Batman—the fifth man to obtain that title. Cadmus was always trying to "_better the world_," but they _always _did more harm than good. Damian was thankful that the agency was shut down after so many "_mishaps_" had occurred.

Terry was younger than Damian, but not by much. In fact, their age was very close. Terry was _always _closer to Jason as a brother, though—especially after Terry's younger biological brother, Matt, had died. The fact that Terry and Jason had very similar backgrounds and experiences most-likely led to that inescapable fact. Damian and Terry were also very close, albeit _constantly _butting heads, but they were still very close, nonetheless.

In fact, when Damian was ten years old—and, at the time, acting as the current Robin—he had even saved the preteen Terry from being beaten up in street fight in his neighborhood. Damian learned very quickly, though, that Terry was the one that had started the fight. Although Terry was _vastly outnumbered_, he had managed to inflict serious injuries upon his opponents, hence the reason that he was running from them. Damian learned this information very quickly and he gave Terry a chase that the young boy would not soon forget, but somehow, Terry managed to lose Damian.

Terry lost the assassin that had been trained and taught, since birth, the assassin that was physically and mentally superior to men three times his age. The fact, that Terry managed to lose Damian, certainly impressed the young Robin—but it also angered him. Later, when Damian learned who Terry was, it only solidified their rivalry. Their rivalry, however, was matched only by their respect for each other.

Bruce Wayne had adopted four sons. He had been biologically related to one—to Terry. Bruce had also raised Damian, as well. He had taught, trained, and tempered _all _of his sons. He had also trained, taught, and tempered four girls, and he had considered these girls his own as well. He had never adopted any of the girls that he had taught, trained, tempered, and _raised_. He didn't need to. With, or without, legal guardianship—or blood relationships—these girls saw him as a father, regardless.

Bruce had taught, trained, and tempered a fifth girl, as well. She never considered him a father, although she was the _only _one of the girls, that he had trained, that was related to him—by blood. Helena Bertinelli was the first person to use the hero-alias known as "_Huntress_," but Bruce's biological daughter, Helena Wayne, had been the second holder of that name. Helena Wayne was the youngest of the girls that Bruce had taught, and she had been the very last person to assume the role of "_Robin_," before Dick Grayson, Bruce's oldest son, assumed the role of Batman after Bruce's death.

Helena Wayne was named after Helena Bertinelli, and she was Damian's only biological sister—although she was only his half-sister. Her existence had been kept, as a secret, from her father for years—much like Damian's own existence, which was kept from Bruce for ten years.

Damian was not even allowed to grieve properly for Helena Wayne, as her body was never recovered. The two other sisters that Damian and lost, though—Helena Bertinelli and Barbara Gordon—were properly put to rest where they belonged, as they were both finally allowed to rest after a long lifetime of fighting for a just cause.

Bruce Wayne did not raise children. He lowered them. He demeaned them. He took them off of the streets, adopted them, and saved them. Then he killed them. He kept their bodies and minds solidly strong, but he destroyed their souls. It was not an option; it was the _only_ option. They were mortals, and they wanted revenge for what the world had done to them. Bruce Wayne gave them what they _needed_. He gave them retribution. He gave them the instrument that they would use to enact this retribution. He gave them their minds, their skills, and their symbols. And they loved him for that.

Terry McGinnis and Dick Grayson were the last two brothers that Damian had left, and he hadn't seen them in a _very long _time. Damian sighed, as he reentered the present, looking back up at John and his mother.

John opened his mouth to talk, but he was cut off by the green flash on both of the Green Lantern power rings in the room. The ring on Damian's finger flashed perfectly in-synch with John's ring, and the two looked up at one another. It was time. The assassins, Dusan, Talia, and Aaron Able, were all armed with an extensive amount of weapons and blades—all wrapped in emerald energy. Aaron was soon at his mentor's side, and Damian looked down at his protégé, as he gave an unrecognizable signal. Aaron Able nodded in return.

John's Green Lantern suit surrounded itself with a glowing field of emerald energy, and he nodded for Damian to do the same. Damian nodded in return, and he sighed deeply and extended his arms to his sides, as he let the power of the ring wash over him. Soon, his own body was surrounded by a field of emerald energy, and he let out a deep breath. It took more energy, stamina, and willpower, than he had imagined it would to accomplish the supposedly-simple task. John smirked at Damian.

"Told you so, kid. Don't be so cocky. The strain is pretty big." he warned his comrade, and Damian nodded in understanding. He now fully believed John.

The green glow around Damian's body was noticeably weaker than the glow around John's body, but that was to be expected.

The two Green Lanterns—an official Green Lantern, and a _renegade_ Green Lantern—slowly lifted a few feet from the ground, and they floated out to the balcony where John had made his entrance to the hideout only minutes ago.

The two then watched the sky, as shadow slayers after shadow slayers appeared before them, until the entire squad was there in front of them—twenty in total. They had a green glow around them as well, but their glow was noticeably _darker _than the glow around John or Damian. Their uniforms were also much darker, although, other than that, it looked very similar to John's Green Lantern Uniform—albeit with a different symbol on the front. The assassins appeared on the balcony—_all _of them.

Archers took up their positions as they drew their arrows back, and they each took aim at the emerald shadow slayer that he or she had chosen to target. The shadow slayers seemed unimpressed by the actions of the assassins, and they focused almost _all _of their attentions on the two Green Lanterns before them.

Three of the slayers raised their rings at the two Lanterns, and they showered the area, where John and Damian were floating, with deadly dark green blasts. The two took to the air, and moments after their bodies left the balcony, the fatal green blasts connected with the balcony, as it was promptly destroyed in flash of dark green and a cloud of smoke.

Now, _all _of the slayers took aim at their two approaching enemies, and this left them unaware of the archers below them. Thus, they were open to their attacks. Just before the slayers bombarded John and Damian with another shower of dark green energy, arrows—sharpened, accurate, and deadly, arrows, all wrapped in emerald energy—all left their bow, as they were propelled towards their intended targets.

The slayers immediately dispersed in an expert manner, but some were hit by the arrows, nonetheless. The slayers that were hit promptly fell to the ground, unconscious or otherwise dead. Two shadow slayers were impaled by two arrows, each in their upper chest area, but their new injuries only served to anger them further. These two slayers charged towards the large, and long, ledge where the archers were located, and they proceeded to bombard the area with dark green energy blasts. Many of the archers were burned, or otherwise catapulted from the ledge by the sheer force of the blasts.

As the two slayers landed on the ledge, however, assassins—with expert skill, and glowing green weapons—stepped out of the shadows that concealed them, and they attacked the slayers. The two slayers proceeded to instantly construct a dark green energy-shield, which the assassins' blades easily cut through—due to the emerald energy fields around their weapons.

One of the injured slayers quickly fell to the floor, bleeding, but the other swiftly dodged out of the way of the incoming blades, and he retaliated with a large fist—as large as a tall man—as the large dark green fist came flying at the assassins. Many of the skilled combatants dodged the fist cleanly, but it made contact with a few of the assassins, effectively crushing bones, pulverizing flesh, and knocking the assassins back. Dusan, Talia, and Able now sprung into action, as more of the shadow slayers veered down to deal with the assassins on the ledge. This left only half of the original amount of slayers for John and Damian to deal with in the sky.

The two Green Lanterns charged at their ten remaining enemies, as their altitude climbed, and they both raised their rings instinctively.

The ten shadow slayers sprayed the two approaching Green Lanterns with a flurry of dark green blasts, but John raced ahead of Damian, and he caught the blasts with a newly-formed solid green shield. Taking advantage of the slayers' momentary preoccupation with John and his construct shield, Damian launched himself over John's head, and he materialized two sharp, serrated, swords out of thin air. Damian grabbed the two swords, and he then proceeded to charge at his slightly confused and discombobulated enemies, slicing and slashing them with expert timing and efficiency as he did so. He caught flesh—and whatever flesh he caught, he sliced, without hesitation. John dropped his shield, as the slayers were now focused on Damian and his swords, and John took the moment to briefly catch his breath, and smirk.

"Once a ninja, always a ninja." John said, directing his comment at Damian, whose first two constructs as a Green Lantern were two swords.

"Damn straight." Damian responded, all-the-while fighting and dodging as best he could.

Damian was now circled by slayers, and John quickly entered the mix, himself. Two slayers were about to lunge at a distracted Damian to attack his exposed back, but John was there in a second, blocking the slayers' energy blasts with a solid green steel wall. The wall took the blast, and John dissolved his steel wall construct, as he created a large green whip and latched it around the waists of the two shadow slayers nearest him, pulling them within arms' reach.

As soon as the two slayers were within arms' reach, John swung his left hand—and he used a great deal of his willpower in the punch—as his fist connected with both of the men before him, in order, effectively crushing their jawbones and sending them flying to the cold, cruel, tundra below. John wasn't sure if he had killed them or knocked them unconscious, as he was not sure how much force he had used. John and Damian were back-to-back again, and the two continued to alternate between shield, sword, offense, and defense, as they continued to move in a circle and draw their enemies' fire towards themselves.

Back on the ledge, Dusan and his sister were back-to-back. Talia hurled three knives in the direction of the three nearest slayers, and two dodged—although the knives still struck them, albeit not in a fatal area—while one slayer was killed by her brutal blade. Dusan drew his second katana, and he pressed his back to his sister as the two continued to move in intricate patterns and circle their bodies, as their enemies lunged at them.

Aaron Able saw an opening, and he took it. The boy jumped off the second tier of the ledge, and he landed on a slayer's back, effectively cutting the man's throat as he did so. Aaron then toppled the now-dead man to the ground, and he hid behind the dead man's body until he hit the ground, effectively using the man's body as concealment from his enemies. The moment that the dead slayer's body hit the ground, however, Able flipped the body over, and he launched himself at the two slayers that were waiting there. He had efficiently used the dead man's body to hide his own small body from the view of his enemies until he sprung at them.

Now, the child with two glowing green knives lunged at the two men, giving them no time to react, as he stabbed one in the jugular. As he was traveling quickly forward, Aaron wrapped his legs around the second slayer's neck, bringing the slayer down with him. The moment that the boy and the slayer hit the ground, Able sprung himself up—as he was sure to land on his left hand, the hand that was without a blade. Aaron chaotically catapulted himself through the air above the slayer, flipping flawlessly as he did so. As he was flipping through the air, and upside down, Able threw his one remaining knife away from his body at an odd angle, and the knife hit the slayer, that he had just taken to the ground, square between the eyes, instantly ending him.

Able landed on his forearms, and he rolled forwards, quickly getting to his feet. He stood up, and he quickly surveyed his surroundings. The assassins now had the obvious advantage, as very few of the shadow slayers remained. Able spotted a lone katana on the ground, and he picked up the glowing green blade, as he launched himself back into the fight.

John and Damian made quick work of their enemies, but Damian failed to notice that a slayer—one that Damian had injured moments before—was charging towards John's back with a dark green razor construct in his hand. Damian turned around and noticed the man, mere moments too late. The slayer sliced at John, and he caught his flesh from the back of John's lower left kidney-area. The slayer dug his dark green construct blade into the Green Lantern's back, twisting and slicing as he did so. The dark-skinned man's noble Green Lantern Uniform was now colored crimson, with his own blood, in the area where the slayer's razor penetrated through his uniform and through his skin. The wound was deep on his lower left stomach, but it did not bleed much. John was in severe pain, but he managed to turn around and kick the slayer that had injured him, with _all _of his remaining willpower and strength, and it was a kick that would have rivaled a Kryptonian in pure power. The slayer's neck cracked in a sickening way, as he fell to the ground, lifeless.

Damian was at John's side in a moment, and he wrapped his arms around his friend, as he surveyed their aerial battlefield. John was breathing _very heavily_, and his strength was quickly fading. His injury was bleeding, but it was not bleeding much. Damian supported John, as the two flew into the hideout's interior.

Damian escorted John carefully back to the interior of the hideout. All of the shadow slayers that the assassins had to deal with had been dealt with. Damian landed, and he saw that many of the assassins—assassins that he had thought of as family and friends—were now dead or severely wounded or injured. However, he also took note that _all _of the shadow slayers were now dead or knocked unconscious as well.

Damian laid John down on the smooth wooden floor, and he called out to his grandfather, that, having not been involved in the fight, came almost immediately.

"Get some Lazarus Pit Water! His injuries are severe, but it will take some time for them to fatally affect him. We can heal him in the mean time wit—" Damian started, but was cut off, as John grabbed his hand and spoke.

"No." John said firmly.

Damian looked at the man with anger; it was clear that Damian wanted to slap him, but due to John's stomach wound, Damian did not. "We are going to heal you. You are not going to die, simply because of some foolish pride!" Damian shot back, and John grabbed his hand even tighter.

"Green Lanterns aren't supposed to live forever, kid. That's why we have the '_Selection Process_.'" John replied softly, and just as he did so, his ring began to blink and flash as it sensed his growing weakness.

John smirked, and he held his ring to his mouth as he spoke into it, sending his last transmission to planet Oa. "This is John Stewart, Protector of Sector 2814. I am mortally wounded. I am beginning the selection process." he said with an air of finality and formality. John rose from the ground—albeit slowly and painfully, but he rose nonetheless—and he turned to Damian.

"Take that ring that you have there, back to Wayne Manor. It'll be safe there. I don't know why, but I've got a good feeling about this guy." John said, smiling as his ring created a holographic map of planet Earth and highlighted a city on the southeastern edge of the Mediterranean Sea.

John looked at the location with shock in his eyes. The hologram highlighted a single city: Cairo, Egypt. That's where he had last left Chaos and Control. He was, at least, thankful that he would be able to say goodbye to them—to the two children that he had promised Wally that he would watch after, to his niece and nephew.

John looked at Damian, and he nodded. "Take care, kid. Deny it all you want, but you _are _your father." John said with a smirk, as he lifted into the air and took off—using _all _of his remaining strength to do so—and he flew as fast as he could towards Cairo.

No one noticed, but an emerald shadow slayer took off after John. It was the _only _shadow slayer that had not been involved in the fight—the _leader _of the other shadow slayers—and it was now silently and stealthily following on the weakened Green Lantern's tail.

Damian looked after his injured, mortally wounded, friend as he departed the hideout, flying away in the cold Russian air, all-the-while the shadow slayer followed him and stayed out of sight. Damian sighed very deeply as he removed his ring from his finger, and the green glow around his body immediately dissolved and faded into nothingness.

Damian immediately had to take a deep breath, and he had to force himself to stand straight up. The strain that the ring had put on his body was very great, and that was only _half_ of the strain that the average Green Lantern had to face—_every time _he or she put the ring on. Damian looked at the ring in astonishment. He had not expected the strain to be so great. John was right. He had a new respect for his wounded and proud comrade. He tossed the ring in the air and he quickly caught it and pocketed it. He turned to his grandfather, and he addressed him in a sharp, formal tone.

"I will need a plane back to Gotham." Damian stated, and his grandfather nodded.

"Of course it will take some time to arrange—and you may have to wait for a while—but I will arrange it." Ra's responded to his grandson, and Damian nodded. Damian then noticed the sad, sullen, expression on his protégé's face, and Damian smirked as he addressed his trainee, Aaron Able.

"Hey Able, how do you feel about taking a trip to America?" he asked, and the boy lit up at the remark. Aaron Able did _not _smile often.

"Sounds agreeable." he responded to his mentor, smiling slightly as he did so.

* * *

><p>Rex looked into her pink eyes, and he couldn't look away.<p>

"Talk." she commanded him. He still did not speak.

"I could kill you so quickly that you wouldn't even know that it was my intent to do so. I would speak, if I were you." she threatened, and, to this, he finally responded.

"The fact that you just revealed that piece of information also revealed your intent, which now makes your statement about me not knowing your intent very untrue." Rex replied, apparently finally out of his stupor.

Control narrowed her eyes, and Rex copied the action, returning her deathly fatal stare.

"So you can speak. And here I was, thinking that I was about to snap a mute kid's neck. Well, at least I'll know I killed a completely normal teenager—aside from the debilitating stupidity—when I look back on this moment." Control responded, seeming to mean every word she had just uttered. Rex still seemed unfazed. "Now talk." she commanded once again.

Rex smirked. "I just did." he obeyed her command.

All this time, Chaos watched his sister interrogate the boy that had just, undoubtedly, saved her life, and Chaos watched with an odd attraction to their conversation. He couldn't look away. He was watching his sister prepare to kill the boy that had just saved her life, and he just couldn't look away. He needed more entertainment in his life.

And girls. He needed more girls as well, but that was more difficult than it sounded. He had no money, and social skills only took a guy so far. His stomach grumbled, and it was so loud that the two deadlocked teens turned their heads to take notice of the teenage boy with the blue bandana around his mouth and a target painted on his bare chest. They then returned their attention to each other and their fatal stares became immeasurably more fatal. Chaos wondered where he might be able to get a good burger, and just as he did so, Control spoke.

"Why are you following us?" she questioned seriously.

Rex now looked genuinely confused. "I am not following you." he replied, and she scanned his face for any signs of dishonesty. She found none.

"Why were you _here_, then?" she asked.

"I heard the explosion, and I came to help." he responded honestly.

She raised an eyebrow. "So you just run _towards_ explosions and gunfire? Do you have a death wish?" she asked him, somewhat jokingly.

Rex looked away from her deep pink eyes, as he stared at his shoes. Her eyes widened. She hit a soft spot. Maybe he _did _have a death wish. She instantly regretted her question.

"I'm…I'm _sorry_. I didn't mean to—" she started to apologize, after a long pause in their banter, but he cut her off.

"You don't need to apologize. You asked a valid question. I am sorry for staying in the shadows and giving the impression that I was following you," Rex said, now turning his view towards Chaos as he said his three last words, "_both _of you." Rex finished, and Chaos nodded.

"Nah, don't worry about it, dude. If you didn't finish that guy off, Con would've died for sure." Chaos responded, taking off his bandana and smirking at his sister, who was shooting him a stare that would have killed anyone else. She couldn't believe that her brother had just suggested that she needed _anybody's _help. She most certainly did _not _need his help.

"I would've finished him just fine, thank you." Control responded to her brother's quip.

"Yeah, that was impressive." Rex commented on the twins' abilities.

Chaos smirked, and Control turned around and searched his face for any sign of cynicism or dishonesty once again, and once again, she found none.

"Thanks." the twins said in unison. Control carefully removed her bandana as her brother had just done, and she smiled at the boy for the first time since she had put her hands around his throat. Rex blushed slightly at her smile. She noticed the red creeping into his cheeks, but she did not think it was a blush. She looked down and she noticed that she was still holding him in a chokehold, and she assumed that he was losing oxygen. She quickly released her hold and addressed him frantically.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" she asked, in a somewhat-concerned voice.

Rex wanted to blush even further, but somehow, he managed to hold it back, and he simply shook his head in response. "What? No, no, I'm fine." he replied, smiling. At this moment, he remembered that he had his hood on, and he removed it, thinking it was rude, or poor etiquette. Then again, this girl had just tried to kill him.

Control got a good look at the boy's face for the first time since she almost killed him. His chaotic dark brown hair rested on top of his head in a fashion that was similar to her brother's hair, but she shrugged off that surprising similarity, during her basic assessment of the boy. She concluded her assessment, and she made a few assumptions about him immediately.

He was between the ages of sixteen and eighteen years of age. That sweatshirt was not his; he stole it. He looked like he did not have a permanent home. He lived on the streets, but it looked like that was a new arrangement for him. She figured this out quite quickly, because he was far more physically fit than the average person on the street. She made one final conclusion: he was attractive. She made sure not to let him know that she had made _any _of these thoughts however.

She looked him dead in the eye. "You steal stuff a lot?" she asked, gesturing to the sweatshirt.

He shook his head. "Only what I _need_." he replied to her remark.

"You just happened to need a green sweatshirt?" she questioned in return.

He shrugged. "It's cold at night." he replied seriously.

She smirked. "Yes. It's also cold in _jail_." she retorted.

He looked seriously at her, and then he smirked, himself. "Are you going to turn me in?" he inquired, and she chuckled.

"I don't _think_ I will…" she trailed off, seeming to appear deep in thought.

"Well then, jail can be as cold as it wants. I have my sweatshirt and this nice sandy floor to sleep on tonight." he stated, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"So, '_Con_,' huh? What's that short for?" he asked the girl, using the name that her brother had referred to her by moments ago.

She looked at him seriously before deciding to answer him. "It's short for '_Control_.' I'm Control, and that's my brother, Chaos." she responded solemnly, pointing at her brother as she did so.

Rex raised an eyebrow. "Are those you _real _names?" he questioned, and the girl immediately became cold.

"It is _none _of your concern what our '_real_' names are. …But _no_, they are _not _our birth names." she replied to the boy in a cold, calculating, manner. She obviously did not like to give away any unnecessary information.

Rex nodded at her response. He was somewhat taken aback by her sudden brashness, but he shook it off and he opened his mouth to respond. Before he could utter a sound however, a flying black man with a glowing green aura crash-landed mere feet from the three teenagers.

Chaos and Control rushed over to him instantly, as they had almost immediately recognized him as the caring and kind man that had guided, protected, and raised them for the past twelve years—John Stewart. The twins were quickly by his side, as two streaks of red and blue zoomed over to him.

Rex was still stunned over the man's landing and he was currently shell-shocked and unable to move.

The twins immediately noticed the large amount of dried blood around John's stomach wound. The bleeding had practically stopped, but the real concern was that his stomach acid would eat away his necessary and vital organs, thus killing him. He had been suffering from this injury for some time before he had crash-landed, and there was no way of knowing how much time he had left.

Chaos and Control both put their hands over their injured uncle's body, and they used their abilities to accurately measure his metabolisms. He did _not _have much left. He did _not_ have enough left for Chaos to be able to heal him. Control also presumed that he did not enough mental focus left for her to be able to heal him. Because of these unfortunate facts, instead of healing him, their attempts to restore him to full health would only speed-up his death.

The twins, each, grabbed one of John's hands and they both began to shed tears. The both knew that he was dying—and there was nothing that they could do to stop it.

John weakly smiled up at the children, and he spoke. "Don't cry. It'll be okay. I _know _you two can take care of yourselves. I'll be _fine_. I _promise_. I've been waiting to go see your dad for a while, anyways." he assured them, and they both nodded—albeit weakly.

"Oh, and here, Con. I got this for you, just like you asked." John stated, handing Control her mother's necklace, which had a single pendant on it—a pink gemstone. "I know that you think it'll help you control your telekinesis, but trust me, kido, because _all _the control, all the power, all the strength that you need, is _inside _you." the Lantern said, and Control nodded and smiled weakly at him, taking the necklace and putting it on.

John turned to Chaos. "I know that you can handle yourself. But please, don't do anything _too _stupid. You've got your father's knack for spontaneity. The thing is, though, that, sometimes, the spontaneous ones save the day. Be the _savior_, _not_ the martyr, okay?" he pleaded, and Chaos smirked and chuckled lightly, wiping a tear from his eye. John then looked beyond the two twins, and he looked directly at Rex. He motioned for him to come to his side.

Rex was still shell-shocked, and he was now utterly confused. He did not know what to do.

"Come here." John said to him in his weak, soft, voice.

Rex, slowly but surely, shook off his stupor, and he gradually approached the man. Rex kneeled down beside John, and John released the twins' hands, as he removed his power ring. The green glow around his body faded, and his Green Lantern uniform lost its field of emerald energy, although it still looked noble and proud. John held the ring out to Rex. Rex went wide-eyed.

"Your name?" John questioned the confused and shocked boy before him.

"…R-Remy Oliver Mathis." Rex responded in a very choppy and unsure tone.

John nodded. "Remy Oliver Mathis. The ring. It. Chose. You." John spat out between deep breaths, as Rex went even more wide-eyed. The boy became speechless. John forced the ring into Rex's hand. "I _know _that it did not choose wrong." he finished, and Rex looked on in awe at the small, immensely powerful, object in his hands.

John looked back at the twins, and he grabbed their hands, as he addressed them for the final time. "Help him. You two are heroes, and now, so is he. Heroes need to stick together. That bond is the one thing that we have left to fight for. Fight for it. And win." he commanded them, and they both nodded sadly at their dying uncle, tears cascading down their cheeks. John was silent, and he spoke no more, as his hands gently released the twins' hand.

The twins then cried very silently as they looked away from their deceased uncle's body. Soon, though, they dried their eyes, and they turned their attentions to the dumbfounded boy with the ring in his hands.

The twins stood from the ground, and they both looked at him intently.

Rex raised his head to meet their stares.

"Put it on." Chaos said, no expression on his emotionally drained face.

Rex looked down at the ring, and then back up at the two twins. "…The ring…it must have…must have made…a…a…_mistake_…I'm _not—_" Rex started his choppy statement, but Control cut him off.

"The ring does _not_ make mistakes. Put it on." she commanded him, and there was a hint of anger in her voice.

Rex looked right into her deep pink eyes, and he nodded hesitantly. He was still unsure, but he nodded, nonetheless. He started moving the ring towards the middle finger on his right hand, but he never got a chance to put the ring on.

Just as the ring was closing distance on his finger, the shadow slayer that had been following John landed in front of Rex, and he quickly snatched the ring, smirking as he did so. "Thanks for the gift, kid." he stated in a menacing tone, and before anyone could react, the slayer was off, speeding throughout the nights skies at full speed.

"_HEY_! _GET BACK HERE! YOU SON-OF-A_—" Chaos yelled at full volume as he took off after the ring thief, a bright blue streak marking his trail.

Control looked after her brother, and then her view shifted to her lifeless uncle. Finally, her view rested on the teenager in front of her. She held out her hand to him.

"You won't be able to catch them by yourself." she stated matter-of-factly, and Rex slowly shook off his stupor once again and he nodded in return. Before he took her hand, however, he looked over at John's lifeless body, and he ran over to him. Rex picked John up and shouldered him ever-so-carefully. He returned to Control's side in an instant.

"We can't just leave him here. He deserves _better_." he said, and Control gave him sad, sullen, heartfelt smile. Rex didn't know John, but he _knew _that he was a hero, and that he deserved _better_. Control couldn't agree more.

She held out her hand once again, and this time, Rex took it. The physical contact made him want to blush, but Control beat him to it. They both looked away from each other as they started to blush, while they began to run, Control taking the lead. Rex was now able to keep up with her, due to the physical contact. They took off, and a noticeable red streak was left in their wake. The two stormed off, chasing after Chaos, chasing after the ring thief, and all-the-while heading west—towards America.

Rex had an obligation now—one to the planet, to its people, to that ring, and to John Stewart. Rex would not fail them. He was tired of failing.

* * *

><p>Jai West and his wife, Jane Jordan-West, sighed as their child ran circles around them. Jane shook her head. If she had still had her power ring, then her son would be under control right now. But the Guardians of the Universe, even though they were clearly in-need of Lanterns, had stripped her of her ring and her distinctions—all because of a <em>few <em>legal issues. She rubbed her temples and looked to her husband angrily.

"What?" he asked aptly.

"This," she started, pointing to her five-year-old son, "is _your _fault." she finished furiously.

Jai shrugged, seeming sorrowful, while his bold brown hair and bashful brown eyes seemed to betray his sense of pride in his son. "Eh, he's a speedster. What do you want him to do? Slow down?" he questioned comically.

Jane shook her head, her tangled brown hair warily whipping around as she did so. She sighed again, as their son, Jacob Jordan-West, zoomed in, and out, of every room in the house—traveling faster than the speed of sound.

Jai couldn't catch his son because his own metagene was no longer active. Metagenes were the genes that had been actively adapted in humans, after the White Martians had interfered in their evolution. These genes activated, when enough energy was administered to the individual human—and that energy usually came from the brainwaves that signaled that the individual _needed _the gene to be active, so the individual could _survive_.

During his final moments with his sister, Jai had terminated his metagene—the one that gave him, and every other member of the Flash Family, access to the Speed-Force. Jai had shared speed with his sister. And, when she had needed _more_, to be able to defeat the Hero Hunters that were after her, Jai had complied, completely draining his own metabolisms, and giving his own sister _all _of his "_Vibration-Vitality_," which completely severed his own connection to the Speed-Force.

In the process, though, his twin sister had become powerful enough to defeat her enemies—although she had to sacrifice herself to do it. Jai knew that she would have to do that, and he had _begged _her to allow _him _to be the one to make the sacrifice. But she wouldn't let him. Jane was pregnant, and he was married. He had a family—one that n_eeded _him. Iris didn't have one. He begged her to see reason, and she did. She saw that the _only _way to defeat these enemies, and spare her family their wrath—was to do it herself, using all of the power that she could muster.

Iris would never have let Jai make that sacrifice. And Jai would never forgive himself for that. She died, while she looked her enemies in their eyes, as she took them with her.

Wally West, the father of Iris and Jai, had outrun Death itself. But Iris had charged, head-first, right at Death. And she had beat it.

The worst part of her death was the fact that Iris had left a part of herself behind—a part that _needed _Iris. Iris had left her daughter. And Jai had always tried to raise the girl as best as he could, to train her, teach her, and temper her. And he had succeeded. But he couldn't give her the _one _thing that she _needed_—but never asked for. He couldn't give the girl her mother.

Jacob Jordan-West continued to race rapidly throughout the house as his two depowered parents—both of which were former superheroes—stood over their kitchen counter waiting for him to stop.

"Jake, honey, would you mind slowing down a little? You're giving your mother a headache." Jai requested.

Jacob stopped suddenly in front of his father, the young boy's brown hair and golden eyes shining with youth, innocence, and deviousness.

"But, dad, I just have _so much energy_, today! Hey! When Uncle Bart gets here, can I _race _him?!" Jake asked excitedly, jumping up and down.

"You'll have to ask him, yourself—if he ever does get here." Jai said seriously. Bart was running late. He was always late—which was typical for a speedster.

Today was Isabella's sixth birthday, and there was no way that Bart would miss his niece's birthday. But he wouldn't be on time, either.

"Okay! Well, until he gets here, though, I just _have _to burn some of this energy off!" Jake said suddenly, as he began to take off once again. He didn't make it far, though. A blitzing blur knocked Jake off of his feet, as he raced towards the stairs.

Jake landed dully on the linoleum floor. The blur slowed down to reveal the form of six-year-old Isabella Iris West. Her fired-red hair had natural black streaks in it, and her dark brown eyes completed her appearance in an oddly fitting way. The girl had her hair up in two pigtails, and she was wearing her mother's goggles. The smile on her face was worth more money than Jai or Jane had collectively.

"Morning, Uncle Jai! Morning, Aunt Jane!" Isabella said happily, speeding over to the two of them, and kissing them both on the cheek.

"Morning, Izzy." they both said in unison, happy to have the child that was _not _hyperactive in their presence.

Jake rubbed the back of his head, as he walked over to Izzy and his parents. "Ow, Izzy! That hurt!" he said sadly.

She shrugged. "Aunt Jane and Uncle Jai asked you to calm down. You should have listened." she reasoned.

"Oh, bless you, child." Jane said happily, praising Izzy's actions.

Izzy smiled in response. "Man, that's not fair! You can't be their favorite child, _and _their favorite niece! I should get _one _title!" Jake complained, looking at his cousin with envy.

"Hey, I _earned _those titles!" Izzy proclaimed proudly.

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the doorbell rang.

Jane and Jai looked to one another, and then they both got up from their seated positions and went to the front door.

Jai opened the door, to find his cousin, Bart Allen, standing there in jeans and yellow shirt. His chest and face were obstructed by the large amount of presents that he was currently carrying.

Izzy's eyes went wide at the sight of all of the presents.

Jane and Jai helped him inside, taking some of the presents from him. They placed all of the presents in the backyard, next to the cake on the table.

"Uncle Bart!" Izzy said happily, as she flew into his arms when he returned.

"Hey there, kido!" he said, equally as happy, as he patted her on the back.

She released him, still smiling. "Are _all _of those presents for _me_?" she asked incredulously. Bart chuckled and nodded.

"Sure are, _Speed-Demon_! Tell you what, why don't you go on out there and open one up right now. Call it a freebie." Bart said kindly.

"_Really_?!" she asked, eyeing her uncle with hope. He nodded. Iris turned to Jai and Jane. "Can I, _please_, you guys? _Pretty please_?!" she asked them pleadingly, bouncing up and down.

"Okay, fine. But just _one_. We'll wait until your friends get here to open the rest." Jane said, smiling as she did so.

"Yeah! C'mon Jake! Help me pick out which one to open!" Izzy said happily, speeding off into the backyard. Her cousin followed her quickly.

"Quick little road-runner, isn't she? How fast is she now? Mach 20?" Bart asked, intrigued.

"Mach 30." Jai corrected him.

"Whoa. _No one _has _ever _gotten up to that speed, at _her _age! That's incredible! She'll break the light-barrier, before she's ten!" Bart said happily, practically exploding with pride. "She's got _some _kind of energy!" Bart exclaimed.

"Yeah, well, when your uncle spoils you, like how you spoil her, you tend to get excited a lot." Jai said seriously.

Bart eyed Jai seriously. "Look, _someone _has to spoil her. And we all know that her _father _won't do it." Bart spat vehemently.

"You know, _very well_, that if her father knew that she even existed, there would be _nothing _on this planet that would be able to keep him from her." Jai defended the girl's father.

"Yeah? Well, how hard is it to figure out? He is the son of the world's greatest detective, after all!" Bart said, angrily.

Jane sighed. "Damian is doing what he _needs _to do. He's lost _enough_, Bart. If he finds out that he's missed six years of his daughter's life, it will _kill _him. You _know _that's true. He was an arrogant, egotistical, know-it-all. But he cared. He _loved _Iris. And, I _guarantee you_, that the _moment _that he finds out about Izzy, he'll be right next to her—making-up for lost time, and then some." Jane said sincerely, putting an arm around Bart.

"Yeah? Well, what's taking him so long." Bart asked, his anger diminishing.

"He's doing what he _has _to do. He's becoming who he _has _to become. And we can't stop that. We have to wait for him to finish, to come to us. We all know that the world _needs _Batman." Jai said sternly.

Bart sighed and nodded. The three adults all exhaled and looked out the back door, watching the two young speedsters play, oblivious to the current condition of the world—the world that desperately needed heroes.

**A/N: Well, I hope that you all enjoyed that chapter. I know. It was depressing. But, remember, things have to get worse, before they can better. And, they WILL get BETTER! On a side-note, any and all of you, wonderful readers/reviewers, should surely check-out my profile, and see what other of my publicly posted FanFics might interest you! There may be a few. If you have read a book, then the chances are that I have read it as well, and if I have read it, then I'd love to talk about it! Message me, if any of you guys have any questions, or just want to chat, about ANYTHING. I'd love to hear from you! Well, stay tuned for the next update, and please click that subscribe/alert button, if you want the alerts for updates on this story, or simply message me, and ask me to message you every time I update, as I would be HAPPY to do so! So, please R&R, and stay tuned for the next update! **


	8. Bloody Bat, Rising Robin, & Hellish Hawk

**_Disclaimer:_**** I do not own "_DC Comics_," or ANYTHING associated with said franchise, movie(s), literature, games, merchandise, or other media.**

**_Accolades/Appreciation:_**** Thanks for all my AWESOME readers/reviewers of this story, for your favorites, subscriptions, reviews, feedback, and generally awesome comments! They are the reasons that this FanFiction continues [to be awesome]. **

**_Important Information:_**** This FanFiction, is-based-on/takes-place-in, the FUTURE, of The "MAIN-DC-Universe," (ONE, Of MANY Universes, In "The DC-MultiVerse"). …And, also, you should all note that ANY AND ALL of the "separate-stories," in this FanFic will eventually TIE-IN TOGETHER, and they will ALL flow chronologically, and in TIME-ORDER, and thus these "events," or "separate-stories," are actually ALL LINKED-TOGETHER, and they ALL happen, IN THE ORDER that they are written/read. Also, PLEASE NOTE, that regardless of how many characters make "Guest-Appearances" here, this story WILL focus on the "Teenage-Team," of OCs that that I have created here (or will create soon-enough)…and it will also focus on their mentors, and the HUGE plot. Also, PLEASE know that any and all of the chapters following this will become WAY MORE READABLE and SHORTER!**

**_Author Announcement(s): _****This is the second update, for this story, that is being posted today. As such, it should be known that a gravely great deal of time has been spent, in writing, rereading, reviewing, revising, and re-writing these two updates. As such, it would make me immeasurably, and HUMBLY, happy to read a review for each chapter, separately, as a lot happens in each chapter. More reviews means more motivation, and more motivation means more time spent on this story. So, please, please, review each update separately.**

**VIII. Bloody Bat, Rising Robin, and Hellish Hawk**

Tristan Gordon-Grayson stood, looking over the edge of a cliff, towards a small, snowy, village below. He narrowed his eyes. Bialya was never snowy. That was first, and first occurrences were usually bad in this country. Tristan looked over to his right, to his wife, and to his two children, both of whom were currently holding each other's hands, and were situated between their parents.

Tristan nodded at her. She locked eyes with him, and then nodded back. Tristan looked down at his five-year-old son, then over at his three-year-old son. He sighed. He looked down over the cliff, at the village, once again. That village housed his targets, his enemies, the ones that he need to find and stop. That village housed the remnants of the Hero Hunters—the ones that had escaped the retribution of the _Birds of Prey_, the team formerly run by Tristan's mother.

The wicked wind gusted once again, and it swirled Tristan's red-black hair, and picked up the two frontal bangs of his wife's dark black hair, leaving them in front of her face. Tristan smirked. He loved when she wore her bangs like that, but she seemed to detest it, as it was impractical for combat. At least the wind was on his side.

Tristan hoped that the few Hero Hunters that remained could be dealt with, using only the combined force of two heroes—two _former_ heroes. These monsters had targeted him for some time, and he had skillfully avoided them while the actual _Hero Hunting_ had transpired, but now, here, out in the open, he was no longer the target. They were. He had to eliminate them if he wanted to ensure that his children had the one thing that he lacked in his childhood: safety.

Safety was a logical thing to seek, and it was the one thing that the heroes of the world, as well as the villains, sought after. Safety ensured that one would survive, and if one could survive, then one could prosper, and prospering was more-than-logical. Lex Luthor knew that, and so did his two sons, Alexander Luthor Junior, and Darrelet Hal Luthor, better known as _Doctor LetHal_.

Logic was the one thing that Tristan had left to follow, so he followed it. Tristan looked to his wife once more, and she locked eyes with him once again. She said nothing, and she did nothing. But she knew. And, without doing or saying anything, her eyes told him that she knew. They couldn't take their children into that village. They would have to leave them somewhere. Tristan sighed again. They couldn't just leave their children somewhere; that wouldn't be possible.

But, then again, they couldn't just leave these Hero Hunters to do what they pleased. These remaining Hero Hunters, unlike the rest, were being more proactive than any of the rest. Tristan was sure that the "_Venom Virus_," the appearance of the "_Shadow Slayers_," and many more instances and occurrences were somehow related to _these_ remaining Hero Hunters. He didn't know how, though. So he would find out. He would find out, right before he ensured that his children had safety. Something was happening, something big—very big. And it bothered Tristan that he did not know what that thing was.

He was a hero, but that was some time ago, before the falling-out he had experienced with his father, Dick Grayson. He had left home, and the Robin costume had stayed behind, although the spirit of Robin had been taken with Tristan when he had left home.

He lost contact with his father, although he never lost touch with him. Tristan had been hidden from his father for a few years, by means of his mother. Tristan had been hidden, so that he could be trained to defend himself in the likely event that he would be targeted, as both of his parents were active, and highly respected, superheroes and counterintelligence personnel. His father never would have agreed to training him, especially when Tristan was so young.

Tristan always knew what was going on—everywhere. He was taught, trained, and tempered—since he could walk—to be a capable combatant, a superb soldier, and a brilliant tactician. He was, after all, the son of the second Batman, and the grandson of the first Batman. He was destined to find greatness, although when he did find greatness, he let it slip through his fingers, and the Robin costume had found him instead.

Then, he and his father had failed to act like what they were supposed to be. They failed to act like partners. The fact that his mother and father were never truly thinking the same thing—but always acted as though they were, and the fact that they never married, but still cared for each other—put an even greater strain on Tristan's relationship with both of his parents.

And then Laura was born. She was the only reason that he had to stay, but even her presence couldn't keep him around for long. Somehow, though, her birthday presents always managed to arrive on time, always from an anonymous sender, and always the gift that she wanted. Tristan loved his sister, and there was no doubt about that.

Tristan had met his wife when he had left his home. She had more in common with him, than anyone in his own home ever could. She had been dead—literally. They had that in common. Tristan had died when he had left his home. Her experience with the Lazarus Pits had given her a second chance, although it was a chance that she never asked for—nor wanted. She, too, was taught, trained, and tempered—since childhood—to attain the same skills that Tristan had. He discovered this first-hand, during their first encounter, when she had almost killed him—after he had, unknowingly, disrupted a sting operation that she was running, near a terrorist cell.

Soon, the two realized that they were matched in more ways than one, and that they had common goals—common enemies. Then, their physical passion, turned from aggression, to alliance, and then to affection. Marriage, although a seemingly stupid option, followed soon after.

Tristan looked over to his wife, her dark eyes boring into his own light blue crystal-like eyes. She raised an eyebrow. He shook his head, chuckling slightly. He turned to his two children.

"Hey, Tim, Connor, your mom and I have to take of something that might be a little too dangerous for you two to come with us. So, I was wondering how you guys would feel about crashing at Aunt Mia's place for a while, while mom and I took care of business." Tristan asked them. The two boys looked at each other, and their eyes immediately went wide.

Tim's hazel eyes, and Connor's dark eyes were in shock, as their dark brown hair wavered in the wind. They, apparently, loved the idea. Tristan wasn't sure how much Mia would like it, though. He would have to deal with that later.

"Cool! Would we get to see the Arrow-Liar, again?" Tim, the youngest, asked aptly. Tristan chuckled and looked to his wife.

She rolled her eyes. "If you don't break anything this time. You know how Aunt Mia gets." the dark-haired assassin said to her children.

The two boys quickly looked down at their feet. "Okay, mom…" they said in unison, trailing off.

Tristan looked to his wife one final time, before beginning to make his way back down the cliff, to the nearest airport. "Lian, did I ever tell you how much I love your family?" he asked jokingly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Next time, your side gets to babysit." she replied readily.

"My side of the family hasn't seen me in years. They may not even know if I'm still alive." he refuted her.

"Well then, I guess the time for re-introductions will soon be in order. Besides, I want to meet my in-laws. Laura and Dick may not like you, but I'm sure they'd love me." she said snidely, smiling somewhat as she uttered the words.

"Can we at least demand a late wedding present from them?" Tristan asked hopefully, and the fatal stare that his wife shot him was enough to answer him.

A family reunion was in the making, and Tristan was not happy about that fact. He was happy that he would get to see his sister, though. He would take one good thing at a time, as that seemed to be the only way that the good things were coming, lately. He knew, though, that bad things always followed the good.

* * *

><p>"…So, you knew my dad? …Like, my biological dad?" Collin asked curiously, as she and Rose walked through the dark streets of Gotham.<p>

Rose nodded. "Yeah. I knew him. He was a good guy—confused sometimes—but good, nonetheless. Y'know what, kid? If he had _you_ to explain the difference between good and bad to him, then he might not have been so confused. That would've been golden, seeing Jason Todd getting schooled by his preteen daughter. It wouldn't be so unbelievable, though, as this is the same twelve-year-old that's been schooling all of us 'bad-guys,' on what we really are." Rose said comically.

Collin frowned. "Well, he didn't have me, because he didn't want me. So there's no point in imagining anything other than reality." Collin voiced vehemently, as she sped ahead of Rose.

Rose narrowed her eyes, and she caught Collin by the shoulder, turning her around, and making direct eye-contact with her. Collin had tears in her eyes. She hated that. She hated looking weak; she had done enough of that in her life.

"You father was a lost soul, a madman, and a killer. But he was a hero, Collin. He didn't have you, not because he didn't want you, but because he didn't _know_ you. If there is one thing that I know about your father, it's that if he knew that he had a daughter, he would have fought for her, killed for her…_died_ for her. Don't you _ever_ think otherwise." Rose explained, drying Collin's tears.

"Understand?" Rose asked, and Collin looked up at her savior, nodding.

The two continued to walk along the road, darkness quickly creeping up on them. But that was fine for Rose. She wasn't afraid of the dark. The dark was afraid of her.

"Hey, where are we going, anyways?" Collin asked skeptically.

"Remember that old friend that I told you about?" Rose asked in response.

Collin nodded. "Yeah. The one that you said was kind and caring. We're going to see him?" Collin asked aptly.

Rose smiled at her and nodded.

"Is what you said about him really true? Did he know my father, too? …And, would he _really_ be willing to adopt…_me_?" Collin asked incredulously.

Rose laughed. "Collin, his family has a _long_ history of adopting determined kids off of the street. …And, yes, he knew your father. He was your father's brother, one of many, and his favorite brother." Rose explained.

Collin smiled slightly. She didn't smile too often. Smiling was sign of happiness, and Collin had not had anything to be happy about—in a very long time. She wasn't an idiot, though. This was a cautious smile.

Rose finally reached a door, and she knocked lightly on it.

Soon, the door opened, and teenage girl with dark black hair, and shinning silver eyes, stood there, cocking her head to one side. She looked curious, inquisitive, and sly. She was a planner. She didn't know what to expect from these two, but she had an idea, and she was ready—ready for whatever they were going to throw at her. She was ready—ready to _react_.

The teenager turned her head to the interior of the house, calling to her apparent father, while keeping her eyes on the two guests at the door, ready to react at a moment's notice.

"Hey dad! I think it's for you!" she yelled boisterously.

Terry came to the door, slightly disjointed.

He rubbed his ears. "Good god, Di. Could you be any louder?!" he questioned quizzically.

Diana rolled her eyes, and gave the two guests one last glance-over, before stepping behind her father.

Terry finally caught sight of the two at his doorway, and his jaw almost fell off.

"Rose…?" he asked incredulously. He then turned to the preteen girl beside Rose. "…And…Rose's daughter?" Terry added anxiously.

Rose smirked. "It's good to see you, too, McGinnis. And, no. Not my daughter. She's yours. …Or, she soon will be." Rose answered.

Terry's eyes went wide. Diana chocked, and she gagged rather loudly as well.

"We have some things to discuss." Rose said seriously.

Terry calmed down after a moment. "Rose, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but—" Terry started, but Rose cut him off.

"She's your niece, Terry. Jason had a last request, but he never got to voice it. That's why I'm here." Rose said, interrupting. Terry went wide-eyed once again.

Di then reappraised the small girl beside Rose, and she smiled slightly at her. Collin returned the gesture. "Hey, sweetie why don't we go inside, while the adults act like children?" Di suggested, and Collin thought it over for a moment.

"I'm fine here. I mean, unless you can teach me how use throwing knives." Collin giggled.

Di looked deep-in-though for a moment. "I'll teach you, if you come inside." she offered. Collin's eyes went wide.

"Wait! …You mean that you actually can use them?!" Collin asked aptly. Diana nodded, smiling as she did so.

Diana warily whipped a throwing knife, from the underside of the waistband of her jeans, handing it to Collin. Collin took the knife cautiously.

Diana looked to Rose, and then to her father. Rose looked to Terry, and Terry returned the favor. He then turned to his daughter, and he nodded at Diana.

"Aim at the small target on the wall, above the kitchen sink." Diana said, pointing to the target directly in front of Collin, past the living room, in the kitchen, above the sink.

Collin nodded, and she focused on the target, as Diana started to talk.

"Just take the knife, feel the weight of it, and make it a part of yourself. Put all of your doubts, fears, and uncertainties, into this knife. When you release it, release that part of yourself as well. The knife is not in control of you; you are in control of the knife. It is an instrument. It is your servant, and your mind is its master. Your mind is what must be strong here, not your body. Always aim to show power, to evoke your sense of superior skill. That is what will prove that you have power, that you have skill. That will enact logic, and the one with the most power will always win, and will always be followed. The knife must follow _your _movements. It _will _follow your movements. Just take a deep breath, hold the knife, blade pointed down, and swing your arm forwards, feeling the knife—as your power—as your release. Aim, concentrate…and then forget it all, and just throw it." Diana instructed, and Collin nodded.

The twelve-year-old held the knife as she was told to, and she slowly swung her hand forwards, releasing the knife as she did so. The knife hit the target, mere centimeters from the middle of the small center. Diana went wide-eyed.

"Well. You certainly are a fast learner. I suppose that I'll have to keep you occupied, using other methods. I could teach you some other techniques too." Diana suggested, trying to give her father and Rose as much time as possible—in private.

Collin titled her head to one side, smiling sincerely at Diana as she did so.

"I can teach you the basic forms, finesses, and flows, of over 100 different martial arts, if you would want." Diana suggested, and Collin beamed.

"You're going to be the best big sister, ever!" Collin said excitedly, as she raced inside the house. Diana was not far behind, as she contemplated the statement that Collin had just uttered. Diana wouldn't mind having a younger sister, especially if it was going to be Collin. Diana smiled at the thought.

Rose looked to Diana, and then to Terry, raising an eyebrow as she did so. Rose hadn't seen Diana, since she was very little, and she doubted that the girl remembered her at all. But, even so, Rose hadn't remembered the toddler being able to use throwing knives—or being well-versed in so many fighting styles.

Terry shrugged. Having Batman for a father had its advantages.

Collin beamed at Diana, and she flowed the older teenager inside the house, where Diana lead her to the basement—to the training room.

After the two girls had disappeared around the corner, Terry addressed Rose. "Start talking." he ordered, and she sighed.

She had a lot to talk about.

* * *

><p>Matt looked at the small slice that his knife had made in his finger. He examined it carefully, as he continued to skillfully, swiftly, spin the knife in his hands. The small wound began to drip with fresh blood. Matt stared intently at the wound.<p>

Matthew Harold Maxim had seen blood before. He had seen oceans of it. And he had learned to swim in it. He had followed his father, all over the world, followed him for six years, and he had done what his father had begged him to do. He had lived.

Matthew was one of the few things that tied his father, Hal Jordan, to this world. Hal needed his son to live. Matt needed to live, because Hal wanted him to live. And nothing was a necessity; not even living was a necessity, which made every single _want become a need_. Hal needed to have needs, or his life would be meaningless. He had already failed many of those that tried to depend on him, on his willpower. Hal had failed, but he had succeeded _many _more times than he had failed. He was the best Green Lantern that had ever lived. He was the swiftest, smartest, strongest, and most wilful of _any and all_ of the Green Lanterns that had ever lived.

Hal needed his son to be able to succeed, where he had failed, to give his failures meaning because everything needed meaning, and Hal always did what was needed. That was what defined him, and he needed to be able to define himself, by allowing his son to define himself. He needed his failures to be turned into successes, and the only way that Hal was able to do that, was to ensure that his son learned from his failures, and utilized them.

Hal Jordan was afraid. He was always afraid. But fear wasn't his weakness. It was his strength. It reminded him that he was still human, that he was not like those monsters whom he faced. It reminded him that fear was simply an emotion, that he could overcome it, that he could be stronger. And the strongest always survived. Those who sought power for their own ends, sought it for a reason, a reason that would simultaneously be their downfall. They were weak. They were vicious. They were evil. They had never known fear. Hal Jordan, Green Lantern, changed that.

His son, Matthew Maxim, did not seek power. He had power, and Hal needed to see that his son realized his power, that he used his father's failures, to drive his own successes. Soon, Hal no longer wanted Matt to realize his power. He _needed_ Matt to realize his power. Hal's realization was caused by an event that was inescapable. There was cooperate espionage conducted against Hal—as Hal was, at the time, running a division of Wayne Tech Aeronautics. During the related attempt on his mother's life, Matthew Maxim defended his mother in a home-invasion, and as such, the young boy had been injured—badly.

Matt was eight, and immediately following this incident, he had followed his father around the world, being taught, trained, and tempered in almost all of the fighting styles that he could muster. Six years had served Matt well, and he had used his father's failures to drive his successes. He had never known that his father was a Green Lantern—_the _Green Lantern—but he had known that he was an active-duty pilot, and Hal had told the stories of his failures, using the Airforce, as a replacement for the Green Lantern Corps.

As he sat there, on the roof of his two-story apartment in downtown Gotham, Matt remembered the blood. The blood was never forgotten. It was a reminder—the blood of his mother, the blood of his own body, the blood that he had lost—and learned to swim in—as he learned how to succeed, how to fight, how to win.

Then, he thought of Laura's blood. Matthew Maxim and Laura Grayson had spilled each other's blood enough times, while sparing, to be able to fill rivers with it.

Matt had returned to Gotham at the age of fourteen, and he had taken any and all tests that the state had required him to, allowing him to enter into high school with ease. During those six years, Matt had pushed his _mind_, as well as his body, to—and _beyond_—any and all limits that he had previously had.

When he returned to Gotham, returned to public school, and returned to Laura, he realized something odd. In six years, Matt had done a lot. He had taught, trained, and tempered himself in almost every martial art that he could discover. He had read any and every book that he could get his hands on. He had mastered over seven different languages. And he had continued to do _all _of this, after his return. But, somehow, Laura, his childhood friend, was just as well-versed as he was in martial arts, in physical prowess, and even in mental capacities. Laura's physical physique, mental magnitude, and emotional endurance was comparable to his own limits in every way. Now, knowing that, Matt had to wonder how Laura had been able to train, teach, and temper herself to be able to do this—to be as good as him, and sometimes, even better.

He sighed. It was one of the many reasons that he loved her. She would push herself towards anything, through anything, and even though she constantly did this, she never thought that she was good enough. She better than she needed to be, though. She _constantly _pushed Matt, allowed him to succeed, where his father had failed, and allowed him to be what he needed to be.

He loved that feeling, and he loved her, for being able to give him that feeling. He would never tell her that, though. They were equals, and telling her that he loved her would put him below her. He wouldn't mind that, but he knew that she would have many problems with it. So he didn't address that fact—the fact that he loved her. But, deep down, they both knew that it was a fact. And deep down, she did reciprocate it, even if she wasn't aware of it.

Matt swiftly snapped back into the present, as a low rumble caught his attention. He looked over to the edge of the roof, getting to his feet, and preparing for a fight, as his father popped into view. Hal grinned cheekily at his son. Matt exhaled the breath that he had been holding, and he rolled his eyes at his father.

"Well, damn sport. I thought you'd be, oh I dunno, studying, or training, or something…or kissing Laura. How's that going, by the way?" Hal asked, just as Matt threw his unbalanced pocketknife at his father. The hilt, instead of the blade, of the knife was aimed perfectly at his father's head, so as to not injure the older man.

It wasn't necessary for the hilt, instead of the blade, to have been aimed at Hal, though. Hal caught the hilt of the blade without moving an inch.

"Yup, so training, huh? Seriously, though, how's the Grayson girl?" Hal asked teasingly, as he walked over to his son's seat on the far edge of the roof, handing him his knife back.

"She's still alive." Matt said, taking the knife, and trying to change the subject.

"I'll bet. Graysons are particularly hard to kill." Hal responded. Matt chuckled—even though he didn't get the joke. Matt was chuckling at something else. His father was a confidently calm man, a comedian. And Matt loved that about him.

"You know that mom is going to kill you, if she finds out that you're up here, right?" he inquired intricately.

Hal shrugged. "She killed me years ago, when she hit me right here," Hal started saying, pointing to his heart, "right in the heart." he finished, being overly dramatic, as he plunged a fake knife into his chest cavity.

Matt shook his head. His mother loved his father, and his father loved his mother. He couldn't see why they couldn't make it work. But, then again, Matt didn't know about the power ring. If he had known about that, then things would have been very different.

"Come on, let's go for a ride." Hal said, gesturing to his classic sports car, parked down below.

Matt shook his head. "Can't. It's a school night, and I have to get up early tomorrow." he countered.

Hal stroked his chin. "Well. Fine, then." Hal said, sounding like a defeated five-year-old.

Matt grinned slightly. "We'll go risk our lives in some stupid activity this weekend. Promise. I just came out here to think—got a big day tomorrow, y'know?" Matt replied.

Hal nodded his head. "I know. Your high school has been chosen as the host-school for the new, all-state track-team, composed of the best runners in the state, and this team will be competing against other all-state track-teams, from across the nation. You meet your new team tomorrow, and practice starts after school. I know, Matt. I always know." Hal said, smiling.

Matt looked at his father incredulously, before smiling slightly and shaking his head. Hal Jordan did always know—when it came to his son, at least.

"Laura got picked for the team, too, right?" Hal asked.

"Of course she did. Does the world look like it's ending?" Matt asked sarcastically.

"Well…no. …Not yet, anyways." Hal responded. Matt looked at his father curiously, trying to decide if he was joking or not. He couldn't decide, and Matt could always read people well—especially his own father. Hal's unreadable face was an obstacle to Matt, and Matthew Maxim always overcame obstacles. Hal quickly changed the topic.

"Okay, then, I just came to give you a little good-luck-present, and wish you good luck—even though we both know that you won't need it." Hal said, as he handed Matt a small necklace, the pendant of which was a small silver engagement-ring, with an emerald stone.

"Mom's old engagement ring?" Matt asked.

Hal nodded. "Figured it should serve, at least, _one_ of you well." Hal joked. Matt laughed as well. He stung the necklace around his neck, letting he engagement ring hang freely from his neck.

"Oh, and I have just one reminder. Aunt Jane and Uncle Jai will be coming to your practice tomorrow. They want to see you in action. …And, they'll be brining Jacob." Hal said. Matt sighed, while also smiling. Jane was Hal's niece, and even though she was, biologically, Matt's older cousin, she was respected as an aunt by him. Her husband, Jai West, was a nice man, and their child, Jacob, seemed to be the only trouble-maker in the family.

"Is Izzy coming, too?" Matt asked curiously.

Hal nodded, smiling as he did so.

"Well, I better get some rest, if I'm going to give them a show." Matt said, effectively ending the conversation.

Hal nodded. "See you later, then. Stay safe, Matt. Love you, son." Hal, said, descending the roof, and heading to his car. Matt went back to contemplating his father's words, regarding the end of the world.

A few minutes passed, before Matt's mother, Jennifer Maxim, made her presence known.

"You know that you're supposed to tell me when your father shows up unexpectedly." she said sternly to her son.

Matt didn't react at all. He knew she was there. He always knew. "I know. But, we both know that you knew he was here, right at the moment that he pulled into the driveway. I'm not the only one that wants him around." Matt said, turning around to face his mother.

"He gave this to me, but I think it's meant more for you. See if you can make good use of it." Matt said, handing his mother his necklace, as the engagement-ring-pendant hung in the moonlight.

Jennifer shook her head at her son. "You can put that to much better use then I can. You keep it. He gave it to _you_, anyways." she replied.

Matt looked at the necklace, and then back up at his mother. Her black hair and brown eyes said more than the words that had just left her mouth. Matt nodded slightly. He put the necklace back around his neck.

"Get some sleep, Matt." Jennifer said, turning around and heading towards the door on the roof. "Oh, and I know that Izzy can outsmart any intelligent man in his fifties, but please don't call her an egg-head again. Aunt Jane and Uncle Jai don't particularly like that name." she added, before leaving through the door.

Matt smiled. He loved his family, Izzy included. She was a gifted genius, and that fact never failed to impress him.

Matt looked at the blade in his hands, the blade that he had bought in a rundown pawnshop in the heart of Gotham. Matt narrowed his eyes at the symbol in the center of its hilt: a black bat.

If the end of the world would come, then so would Batman. Matt looked back out over the horizon of Gotham City. Batman would come. He was sure of it.

* * *

><p>The clown laughed, as he raised the gun to the woman's head. "Remember, little girl, when you play games with The Joker, you lose." Joker said, as the gun exploded to life, bringing about the death of Lana Grayson. Five-year-old Laura cried wildly, begging the mean man to stop, to spare her mother, to taker her instead. He just laughed.<p>

Seventeen-year-old Laura, though, was another story. She watched the scene unfold from a few feet away. She narrowed her eyes.

The Joker continued his maniacal laugh, a force unable to be stopped by anything—except the one immovable object that stood in the clown's way.

Batman burst through the window, and he tackled the clown, pinning him to the floor. The clown wriggled out of the Bat's grasp, and he assumed a fighting stance. He lunged, and Batman countered. The Joker was trained in many fighting styles, a side-effect of years of fighting against the heroic Bat-Bloodline, but regardless, he was no match for the superior skill of the immortal, incorruptible, immutable symbol of Batman, of Dick Grayson. Batman wasn't Dick Grayson here, though—not in Laura's dream. Here, Batman was just a man, just a symbol, just a hero. She wanted something more; she _needed_ something more.

Batman ended Joker with a sickening snap, and soon, the front door to Laura's house opened, as Batman fled the scene and Joker lay dead, right beside her mother. The Joker had been killed by Batman in the streets of Gotham—high above its streets. But _here_, in this dream, in the dream that Laura _always_ had, The Joker lay dead in _her_ house. Laura walked through the open door, as she always did in this nightmarish fantasy—a fantasy, dreamt-up from memory, a memory she could never forget and would never want to. Laura followed a trail of destruction—littered cars, cracked concrete, and chaotic catastrophes, lead the way to her destination.

Soon, she reached the edge of Gotham City, the edge of the American eastern coast—the edge of sanity. Below her was a blood-red sea—a sea that she had learned to swim in, a sea of her own blood, a sea of her mother's blood, the sea that had been filled with her mother's blood, when Laura had failed to act.

Laura closed her eyes, and she sighed deeply. To her direct left, below the edge of the cliff that she was currently looking out over, was nest. This nest was supported by a single, sturdy, solid, branch, extending from the cliff wall. In the direct middle of the nest, was a very large black hawk. He was waiting for her, as he always did, and he stared at her as she made her way down to the branch, and across the branch, slowly, surely.

Laura finally reached the nest, and she stood silently before the hawk, waiting. She always waited. When she had first dreamt-up this nightmare, she had awoken screaming, right at the scene where Joker had killed her mother. Her father was there before she could get out of her bed, and she was always in his arms in mere moments.

After a year, she was able to stay sleeping, even past the part of the dream where her mother had been killed. During the second year, though, she awoke screaming when Batman had killed Joker. Now, for the past five years, she always had the same dream—the same nightmare—and she always ended it _here_, looking at this magnificent, big, black, _hawk_.

She always waited for it to speak, to impart some wisdom on her—or even for it to attack her, to kill her. But it never did. It simply observed. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, the hawk spoke.

"You come to me, child. You come, every night, and yet you find no solace in my presence. Why, then, do you continue to come?" the hawk asked her aptly, speaking in its frighteningly deep voice.

"I do not know what I seek. I know that you are here, because you do know. So, I come to you, in the hopes that you will enlighten me." Laura replied to the large bird. The hawk titled its head to one side.

"You seek what you already have. You seek me, but I am a part of you. You want a hero, but you deserve a cure. Which is it, though, that you _need_?" the hawk asked her.

"I need a _cure_. I need a cure for the virus of violence. I need a cure for likes of the criminally insane, for the sanely insane, for the evil masterminds, for the gods that defy mortals, a cure for…myself." Laura replied honestly.

The hawk nodded. "You have what you need, then." the hawk responded, angling its head down, so that Laura could follow its gaze. There, in the bottom of the nest, was the mangled, dead, body of The Joker, rotten, and waiting to be eaten by a scavenger, by a virus-eater, by a _hawk_. The hawk began to eat the corpse, slowly, surely, eyeing the girl as he did so.

He stopped halfway through, as he eyed the teenage girl that was watching him in silent concentration. "Perhaps you need, not a cure for this virus…but for the one inside of you!" the hawk yelled, launching itself from the nest, and charging at the girl, its beak ready to tear flesh from bone.

The beak made contact with her skin, as the bird made its cry, indicating a fresh meal had been found. Blood and fear spilled from the open wound on the girl, and into the red waves below, as Laura's cry emanated loudly from her body.

Laura awoke with a start, a sickening sheen of sweat clinging coldly to her body. She sighed deeply as she caught her breath—_very quickly_.

'_Well, that was new_.' she thought to herself. The hawk had never spoken before.

'_Blackhawk_.' Laura thought, seeming to remember, for the first time, that hawks did in fact eat diseased virus-infected things, that they kept the strong robust, and protected the weak.

Laura sighed, as she got out of her bed, making her way down to the basement of her apartment, and shutting the door behind her. She descended the steps in front of her.

In the direct middle of the basement room was a foam floor mat, designed for constancy-controlled matches, and around the outer edges of the entire training room, was a rubberized track designed for long-distance runs. She walked over to the equipment.

She located the small, miniature, refrigerator near the only row of treadmills, and she opened it, taking out a full bottle of water, and downing it in almost a single gulp. Then she stretched—extensively. When her flawless flexibility was up to her standards, she headed for the nearest treadmill. She mounted a treadmill. Then she ran. And she didn't stop. She didn't even slow down, and when her sides began to burn, when her breaths began to come in sharp, singeing pains, she continued to run.

She continued, against any and all odds, until the machine said that she had run a short, swift run, for ten minutes at a constant rate of fifteen miles per hour.

Laura dismounted the treadmill, and her breathing began to normalize much more quickly than any average human's breathing would have done so.

Then she walked over to the free weights. She grabbed two twenty-five-pound dumbbells, and she then proceeded to do fifteen sets of twenty-five lifts with the dumbbells in each hand. Her form was flawless.

She relaxed for a few moments, before quickly dropping into a sit-up position and performing 500 consecutive sit-ups, each of growing intensity, power, and pace. She sat up the finial time, and Laura caught her breath once again.

She then proceeded to one, of the five, punching bags in the far left corner of the room. She looked at the rack of sparring gloves that were located next to the punching bags, and she contemplated putting them on. The, she stopped contemplating. And she stared hitting.

She gave the bag closest to her everything that she had. She broke into the forms, finesses, and flows of almost all of the martial arts that she knew. The stealth and silence of Ninjutsu, the power of Kung-Fu, the swiftness of Parkour, the patience of Eskrima, the focus of Kendo, the ferocity of Kuntao, the brutality of Muay Thai, the agility of Jujutsu, and many more elements, worked their way into Laura's form, into her blows, into her mind, and into the bag. Her fury, fierceness, and ferocity, increased with each blow, and with each blow, the face that she was picturing formed clearer and clearer on the punching bag's surface.

The punching bag's surface became Joker's face, laughing harder and harder with each blow, and soon, Laura's blows were maniacal, as the punching bag was soon ripped to shreds.

The aggressively angry teenage girl stood there, her hands bleeding profusely, and her punching bag completely destroyed. Yet, she was not satisfied.

"You know, if you keep obliterating the bags then we'll have to choose, eventually, between punching bags, or a house to live in." a voice said from behind her.

Laura knew that voice anywhere. "I'll pay for it, dad." she said, still slightly seething. Dick heard the anger, and he addressed it—by not addressing it. He knew his daughter, inside and out.

"Oh yeah? And, with what money, young lady?" he teased. She scowled, her back still turned to him, her breathing still slightly ragged. She hated when he called her "_young lady_." And he knew that. Dick smirked.

"I guess I'll have to steal some from you." she said, teasing him in return. Her anger was quickly fading.

Dick laughed inwardly. '_The daughter of Batman, a thief. How ironic_.' Dick thought to himself, chuckling slightly.

"What's so funny?" she asked her father, finally turning around to face him. He shrugged.

"Just a joke that you wouldn't get." he said, as he walked over to his daughter's side, and caught sight of her bleeding knuckles.

He gently grabbed her knuckles, and he looked her dead in the eyes. He said, not a single word, as he got up, grabbed the nearby bottle of rubbing alcohol, and returned to her side. He uncapped the bottle, and he gently poured some of the liquid onto the wounds. Laura winced slightly—so slightly, that is was something that only her father could detect. She hated showing weakness. And she didn't do things that she hated.

He grabbed some gauze from the nearby medical cabinet, and he wrapped her knuckles in the material. Laura looked away from him. He scowled. He didn't like when she averted her eyes from him.

He brought her forehead to him, and he gently kissed her on the forehead. She was still facing away from him, but she smiled at the slight physical contact. Her father loved her, and even an idiot would be foolish to not see that.

"Get some sleep, Lor. Big day, tomorrow." Dick said, leaving her side, and walking back upstairs. He wouldn't talk about her nightmares, about her guilt, about her anger, or about…her mother. She would talk to him—when she was ready. He knew that. She only wondered when she would be ready.

Laura looked back over at the demolished punching bag, the picture of The Joker clearly framed in her mind. She narrowed her eyes. The picture altered slightly, and soon the tattered surface of the destroyed punching bag now had a different picture, all-together. On its destroyed surface, Joker was still present…but he was being beaten…by a Blackhawk. He as no longer laughing.

Laura smiled slightly. She finally understood why her mother had made her choice. She didn't do it to save her daughter. She did it to give birth to a new creature, a new hero, a new cure. She did it, to give birth—to give birth to _Blackhawk_.

**A/N: Please review, and let me know what you liked! Also, PLEASE know that any and all of the chapters following this will become WAY MORE READABLE and SHORTER! Stay tuned for the next update!**


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